Chasing Dragons
by MarshalofMontival
Summary: What if the Rebellion began differently? What if Rickard Stark decided that he would not go to King's Landing alone?
1. Chapter 1: Justice and Vengeance

The great hall of Riverrun was, perforce, the largest single room in the castle. At full capacity almost four hundred people could join the Lord of Riverrun at wine and meat. Hoster Tully had hoped that his current crowd of guests would do exactly that, for they had been assembled for a happy occasion, the joint wedding of Hoster's daughter Catelyn to Brandon Stark, eldest son and heir of Lord Rickard of Winterfell, and Lord Rickard's daughter Lyanna to Robert Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End. From all across northern and eastern Westeros the guests had come, fully a third of the peerage of the realm with their retinues, come to witness the socio-political event of the decade; overshadowed in scope by the great tournament at Harrenhal perhaps, but vastly more significant, as three kingdoms were bonded together by marriage and a fourth joined them in fellowship.

But three men had been consumed by madness and so all of the carefully laid plans had been brought crashing down. Instead of hosting a nuptial banquet, Hoster found himself chairing the next best thing to a Great Council.

Whether or not it would become a council of war was the topic currently being discussed.

"Our course is clear!" proclaimed Jon Umber, his beard bristling. "We must raise our banners and fight! Today!"

"You would raise your sword against your king?" Lord Darry shouted back, his eyes popping. "Have you no honor?!"

The Greatjon spat on the floor. "That, for Mad Aerys!" he roared in Darry's face. "And for you as well, if you are too craven to fight by our side against tyranny!"

Lord Corbray took advantage of the hubbub that ensued as Darry was physically restrained from attacking the Northman to interject. "Our northern cousins say truly that we cannot let so gross an insult pass unanswered," he said soothingly. "But neither must we forget our duty to our king. The fault for this affair lies not with him but with his son. Let us send again to King's Landing, beseeching the king's justice . . ." he was drowned out by a chorus of boos, over which thundered the stentorian voice of Robert Baratheon.

"We _have_ sent to King's Landing for justice!" the young stormlord bellowed, pointing to the high table. "And in answer of our plea, he summons my good-father to account for his actions like some common felon! Are we men or _slaves_, to be treated so?!"

Hoster turned his attention from the outcry among the assembled lords to cast his glance over the other two occupants of the high table. Jon Arryn was leaning forward in his chair, his elbows braced against the table as he surveyed the hall with pensive eyes over his steepled fingers. Rickard Stark was reading and rereading the missive that had come from King's Landing, delivered by raven that very morning, his stern face set like flint.

Many men found the Warden of the North a hard man to read, but Hoster Tully knew him of old; Rickard's angers ran cold instead of hot. The fact that he had not said anything since reading the missive aloud to the assembly betokened ill.

Hoster turned his attention back to the floor of the hall where Lord Mooton was holding forth. "We know we are justified in our wroth, my lords, but many others will not see it so," he said, gesturing grandly at the walls. "What of the lords of the Crownlands, who hold seisin of the king? What of the Martells, whose nephew is second in line for the Throne? What of Lord Lannister, who longs for royal favor once more? What of Mace Tyrell, who knows little of our northern cousins and cares less? What of the armies and fleets these men can muster? If we declare against the king, will not they . . . " He was cut off by a sudden _crack_ that made the whole hall flinch and snap their eyes toward the high table, where Rickard Stark had brought his open palm down on the tables surface.

"Have. Done," the Stark said, his voice as absolute as a dungeon door slamming closed. "I am weary unto death of these arguments. Now _I_ will speak, and _you_ will listen." Mooton showed tremendous poise, Hoster thought, by yielding the floor to Rickard with a graceful bow instead of simply collapsing into his seat. Rickard stood, ominous in his dark leather doublet and black fur-lined cape, the missive still clutched in his hand.

"Two hundred years ago and more," he said somberly, "my ancestor Torrhen knelt before Aegon the Conqueror and surrendered his crown. When he did, he placed his hands between the Conqueror's and swore a mighty oath, an oath that has been remembered in my line ever since. 'To Aegon of House Targaryen, and his heirs after him, I pledge the faith of Winterfell and the North. Hearth and heart and harvest we yield up to you, our king. Our swords and spears and arrows are yours to command. Grant mercy to our weak, help to our helpless, and justice to all, and we shall never fail you. We swear it by earth and water, by bronze and iron, by ice and fire.' And when Torrhen had sworn, Aegon too swore an oath, binding him and his heirs after him, that he would not forget our oath, nor fail to reward what was given; fealty with love, valor with honor, oath-breaking with vengeance. Any who did harm to us did harm to him, and at their peril. This he swore by the blood of his House and the fire of their dragons, that the first might be spilled and the second extinguished if he failed in his oath." There were nods around the room; every man present was intimately familiar with what an oath of fealty entailed. "Two hundred years and more," Rickard went on, "we have kept our oath. We gave our tax and our counsel in peace and our swords and our lives in war. We have kept faith with the heirs of the Conqueror, even in the deepest winter."

Rickard's voice roughened, became laced with anger. "And how has our loyalty been rewarded?" he asked rhetorically. "Our sworn men have been ambushed and murdered. My daughter has been abducted, on the very eve of her wedding day. My son languishes in a black cell, falsely accused of treason." He paused for a shuddering breath; Hoster had learned rhetoric from some of the best, but he could detect no hint of falsehood in the Northman's apparent emotions. "I will not permit myself to think of the torments that even now they may be suffering."

Rickard's anger was in his eyes now, hard as stones. "I wrote to the King, telling him of the injury inflicted on my house and humbly requesting that I be granted justice, as the Conqueror had sworn. And in answer to my plea," his voice rose to an ursine roar as he brandished the missive, "I am summoned to King's Landing to answer the charge of treason!"

The whole hall held its breath as Rickard lowered his hand. "Two hundred years and more of fealty and leal service," he rumbled, "answered with murder, kidnapping, and base calumny. It cannot be borne." His eyes swept the hall. "Aerys Targaryen has summoned me to King's Landing," he said, his voice terribly calm, "And to King's Landing I will go. But I do not go to answer this false charge of treason. I go to King's Landing to claim the justice that I am owed, and if it is refused me, I will _take_ it."

Silence stretched for an unbearably long moment after Rickard's speech until Jon Arryn stood up. "All that my lord Stark says is true," he said firmly. "Men who have given leal service cannot stand by when their fealty is rewarded by gross injury and deadly insult." His eyes, old and wreathed in wrinkles but still as keen as those of the falcon on his sigil, swept the hall. "We have all of us given leal service to House Targaryen since the Conqueror was crowned. But the dragons of House Targaryen are dead, and what remains of them are mere serpents, degenerate scions of a failing line, who have forgotten not just their honor but their reason. You all know well the tales of the madness of Aerys, and you know just as well the madness that Rhaegar has succumbed to." He paused, eyes still sweeping the assembled lords. "A king who wrongs his people so is no king," he said softly. "By all the gods, my lords, how long shall we suffer these madmen to tear at us? I for one shall not suffer it for even another minute." He turned to Rickard. "I will ride with you to King's Landing," he proclaimed, "and we shall have an answer from Aerys the Mad for this insult."

Robert Baratheon stood. "I'm coming also," he said flatly. "And after we have settled with Aerys, I will find my Lyanna, wherever that bastard Rhaegar has hidden her. And if the kidnapper objects," he drew his sword and raised it high, his eyes blazing fury, "then may the Gods have mercy on him, for I will not!"

Hoster stood as well, the eyes of his vassal lords hot upon him. "It is not meet that such tyranny go unanswered," he snarled, finally allowing himself to feel the fury that he had been biting back for the past two sennights. "I will see justice done for this _banditry_, if I have to twist Aerys's arms to breaking to get it from him."

Jon Umber barked a single syllable of thunderous laughter as he stood forth. "Leave some for the rest of us, my lords," he said in mock-chiding tones, his beady eyes twinkling. "Your quarrel with the dragons is ours as well." The vastly proportioned northman drew his sword and held it out in salute. "Justice and vengeance!" he roared.

Every lord in the hall rose to their feet, and the drawing of their swords in the late afternoon sunlight slanting through the windows was like sudden flame. "Justice and vengeance!" they chorused. "_Justice and vengeance!_ JUSTICE AND VENGEANCE!"


	2. Chapter 2: War in the Hedgerows

_The first month and a half of the rebellion of the Lords Declarant, or Robert's Rebellion, as it is more colloquially known, bore a greater resemblance to a royal progress than a military campaign. After marching west along the River Road, collecting the levies of the central Riverlands, the rebels linked up with the first wave of levies from the northern and eastern Riverlands and the southwestern Vale. This gave the rebels an army of some twenty-five thousand men, of which almost ten thousand were Riverlanders, eight thousand were Valemen, and the remainder a more or less even split between Northmen and Stormlanders. Further reinforcements were already on the march from the North and the remainder of the Vale, but it would take them sennights or months to arrive at Darry, and while Hoster Tully advocated waiting until the full power of the rebels was united before pressing onwards, he was overruled by Robert Baratheon and Rickard Stark, who insisted that the success of their rebellion depended on speed. _

_In this they were almost certainly right, as even at their full united strength the rebels would have been greatly outnumbered by the likely royalist forces. Mace Tyrell, for one, could muster almost as many men as the whole rebellion put together simply by calling out the arriére-ban of the Reach, and while the Lord of Highgarden bore no especial love for the Crown, neither was he any particular friend of the rebels. More immediately, the Crownlands could field between ten and fifteen thousand men, and when Aerys ordered Lord Commander Gerold Hightower to raise an army to crush the rebels, Hightower was able to raise eight thousand men within two weeks, with more on the way._

_By the time the rebels reached Brindlewood, and the interior Crownlands, Hightower's army numbered eleven thousand men, primarily Crownland lords and their levies along with a company of two thousand men raised from King's Landing, and Hightower felt confident enough to give battle. He was greatly assisted in this by the ground on which he chose to fight._

\- _Swords Against a Throne: Being a History of the Rebellion of the Lords Declarant_ by Maester Padramore, published 785 AC

The interior Crownlands had been densely populated and heavily farmed for centuries. As a result, each family's particular plot of farmland was surrounded by well-developed hedgerows, which over the generations had developed into low walls of earth surmounted and overgrown by brambles, vines, and shrubs and trees of a myriad of types, ranging from boxwood to hawthorn to beech to laurel to yew. In between these fields ran twisting lanes of such antiquity that they had sunk into the ground between the hedgerows, so that the berms these hedgerows formed could rise breast or shoulder-high on a tall man.

It was here that Gerold Hightower had chosen to make his stand, and Jon Arryn cursed him daily for it.

Hightower had divided his army into companies of three hundred men apiece, ordering them to choose a particular field, fortify it as best they might, and hold it to the last man. As a result, the rebels were forced to fight what amounted to a series of sieges, cutting off and reducing the fields one by one as they ground forward. In two sennights they had pushed forward only a single mile, in fighting that the veterans among claimed never to have seen equaled for brutality. When forcing one's way through the defended hedgerows and into the fields, the weapon of choice was not the sword but the dagger, wielded overarm in a reverse grip and plunged downwards into a grappled enemy until he stopped moving.

The savage close-quarters fighting that storming a hedgerow entailed was putting particular strain on the knights and lords, whose heavier armor allowed them to take risks that killed their footmen in scores. One could argue that it was good for the morale of the army as a whole to see their leaders take such risks, but the knights were being ground down like grist in a mill. Lord Darry and Nestor Royce had both been killed, as had no less than four of Walder Frey's sons. But the most devastating loss yet had been Lord Rickard Stark. The Old Wolf had led an assault on a field that had reportedly been defended by Hightower himself, and had been cut off and captured in the confusion when the assault was repelled. The Northmen had fought like men possessed ever since, but none more so than Ned, who made a point of leading every assault he could in the plate armor that Jon had commissioned for him for his eighteenth nameday. The rest of the army, Jon had heard, spoke in whispers of the Iron Wolf and his men, who reportedly tore down their enemies with no other weapon than their hands and teeth, and refused to take prisoners.

Jon knew the first rumor for a lie, but he knew that the second rumor was more or less true, and not just of the Northmen. The whole army was growing ever more brutal as the fighting wore on and fewer and fewer prisoners were being taken by the day. Just this morning Jon had watched as a knight in the livery of the Blounts was reduced to a sack of broken bones and pulped meat by a squad of maul-wielding footmen, despite the Blount's cries of ransom. He knew of one incident among the Riverlanders where an assault had been preceded by a dozen prisoners being decapitated and their severed heads thrown into the hedgerows ahead of the storming party. Robert, Jon had heard, had given orders that only lords were to be taken prisoner; all others were to be killed out of hand. Jon had yet to do anything so drastic himself, but he was not immune from the growing madness either; two days ago he had butchered a fallen enemy into gory ruin, his sword continuing to rise and fall long after the man expired. It had taken three large men working in concert to drag him off of the man.

_Damn you, Hightower,_ Jon thought wearily as a galloper came into sight bearing new orders. _Couldn't you have made this a decent fight, instead of this butchery?_


	3. Chapter 3: The Dragon's Lair

_After three and a half sennights of almost continuous combat the decisive breakthrough that the rebels had sought came when Gerold Hightower and his principal subordinates were caught up in an assault near the hamlet of Bluestone; Hightower himself was killed by Robert Baratheon in a ferocious contest, while his subordinates were either killed or captured. The sudden leadership vacuum lead to the disintegration of the Royal Army of the Crownlands._

_However, although the rebels had finally defeated the main royalist army facing them, Hightower had delayed them sufficiently for the royalist forces to fully mobilize. The same day that the rebels broke out of the hedgerow country, forty thousand Reachmen under Mace Tyrell marched into the Stormlands, brushing aside a small force under Lord Dondarrion at Summerhall. This force later divided, with most of the thirty thousand foot under Lord Randyll Tarly marching on Storm's End to besiege it while the rest of the foot and all of the ten thousand cavalry marched north up the Kingsroad under Mace Tyrell to relieve King's Landing. _

_Tarly implemented the siege of Storm's End with his usual efficiency, imposing a blockade by land and sea with both his own force and the Redwyne fleet that left the garrison of Storm's End completely isolated. Tyrell, on the other hand, was sluggish in moving his force up the Kingsroad and was made even more so by the fact that the Stormland countryside had been roused against the Reachmen. The raids mounted on Tyrell's column by the minor lords and landed knights of the central and northern Stormlands, along with their retainers and fighting-tails, rarely amounted to more than pinpricks, but the sheer number of them served to delay Tyrell's advance on King's Landing by at least two sennights._

_Meanwhile, in the Crownlands, the rebels had received reinforcements from the Vale and the North, bringing their strength to almost forty thousand men. Emboldened by their success and their reinforcements, the rebels encircled King's Landing and prepared to lay siege . . ._

\- _Swords Against a Throne: Being a History of the Rebellion of the Lords Declarant_ by Maester Padramore, published 785 AC

Eddard Stark had yet to set foot in King's Landing and he hated it already.

He had heard that near five hundred thousand people lived in the city, which he could easily believe from the size of the place, and judging by the smell, none of them ever washed. The aroma of excrement, smoke, fish, and sweat, all overlaid by sea-salt, was overpowering even at four hundred paces. Furthermore, the place just _looked_ ugly. Winterfell was a fortress, not a palace, but it had a rough, functional beauty. The Eyrie looked like something out of a nursemaid's tale, a splendor of marble amid the clouds. King's Landing, by contrast, squatted on the north bank of the Blackwater like a toad, a heaving mass of densely-packed buildings broken by only three prominences and the structures atop them. The Hill of Rhaenys, topped by the half-collapsed ruins of the Dragonpit, rose from the northern quarter of the city like a boil. Visenya's Hill, in the southern quarter, was topped by the Great Sept of Baelor, with its marble dome and seven crystal towers shining over the city like a mocking glimpse of what the city could be like if it were properly taken in hand. And, highest of them all, Aegon's High Hill, in the eastern corner of the city, with the Red Keep and Maegor's Holdfast perched atop it like a sleeping dragon.

Eddard clamped down on the anger that built in his veins at the sight of the Targaryen's redoubt. _Not yet,_ he told himself, _but soon, soon. Hold on, Brandon, Father; I am coming._

The Gate of the Gods creaked open and a party of horsemen trotted through it under a flag of parley. Their apparent leader was a man with flaming red hair and beard and wearing a chain of golden hands over his breastplate. On his left was an elderly man with a long gray beard wearing a maester's chain, while on his right was a man that Eddard recognized from Harrenhall as Prince Lewyn Martell. The parley flag was held by a man Eddard didn't know whose tabard displayed a crossed mace and dagger on green and white.

As the royalist party drew rein before the rebels, the man wearing the chain of hands nodded curtly. "I trust you'll forgive me for not extending my hand, gentlemen," he said curtly. "I don't make a habit of extending courtesies to traitors."

"Bold words from a man who has committed treason himself," Robert spat. "Or do you deny your allegiance to me, Jon Connington?"

Connington eyed Robert balefully. "As long as you stand against your rightful king, yes," he said flatly, before turning to Jon Arryn. "I trust you have terms to deliver. Get on with it."

Jon drew himself up. "Our terms are these," he said. "Aerys must abdicate the throne on grounds of his evident unfitness to rule. Rhaegar Targaryen must surrender himself and stand trial for the kidnap of Lyanna Stark and the murder of Lord Stark's household men. All of our men taken prisoner must be returned to us with their armor and weapons, especially Lord Rickard Stark and Brandon Stark."

"Have you not heard?" Connington interrupted. "The traitor Lord Stark is dead these two sennights."

Eddard felt the abyss open beneath him. _Father. Dead. No._ It was only when Robert grabbed his arm and shouted sense back into him that Eddard realized that he had spurred his horse towards the man who had told him of his father's death and half-drawn his sword. He rammed the sword back into its scabbard and forced himself back to calm with a long, shuddering breath. "How did my father die?" he asked when he had mastered himself.

"He asked for a trial by combat," Prince Lewyn answered, his face sympathetic. "Aerys agreed, and your father lost. He was very brave." Lewyn paused, then continued. "Brandon still lives, but he is . . . unwell."

Connington spat aside. "As he should be," he said coldly, turning back to Jon Arryn. "In place of your terms, which we reject entirely, these are the terms that His Grace King Aerys offers. You four are to submit yourselves to the King's justice along with your principal lieutenants among those lords who follow you. The other lords and knights in your army shall receive mercy of the king on condition that they immediately go into exile overseas for the duration of their lives. The common soldiers of your army may return to their homes unmolested, provided that they swear allegiance to King Aerys and pledge to never again take up arms against him or his heirs on pain of death. What say you?"

"Horseshit," Hoster Tully replied instantly. "We are owed justice by the King for his son's crimes. If he will not give it to us, then we shall take it."

"My lords," the man wearing the maester's chain said tremulously, "has not enough blood been shed already? The four of you have it in your hands to end this strife now, today, and spare thousands of lives, if not tens of thousands. Why should you not end this madness now, rather than two months from now, when the army that is even now marching up the Kingsroad has destroyed you?"

"In this world, only winter is certain," Eddard replied, his voice as cold as a winter gale. "We may lose, yes, but we will fight regardless. It is all that free men can do." He turned to Connington, allowing some of the hatred in his bones to show in his eyes. "Tell Aerys the Mad that his life is mine; I claim it by right of my father's blood." He turned his horse around and spurred it back to the siege lines, his thoughts a maelstrom of grief and rage.


	4. Chapter 4: The Lion's Pride

_The siege of King's Landing lasted all of three sennights before it came to an abrupt end. For unlooked-for Tywin Lannister had called the banners of the West and marched down the Gold Road to King's Landing with twenty thousand men. As he marched, Tywin kept his army in excellent order, keeping looting to a minimum both by ferocious discipline and by spending gold like water to buy provisions. Tywin had declared for neither the throne nor the rebels, but the rebels chose to err on the side of caution when dealing with the formidable Lord of Casterly Rock and lifted the siege of King's Landing to fall back on Hayford Castle. In doing so, they extricated themselves from a potential three-sided trap, with Lannister advancing from the east, Mace Tyrell marching up from the south, and the garrison of King's Landing on either their flank or rear._

_The garrison of King's Landing, naturally, considered Lannister's arrival to be evidence of divine favor, and opened the gates to his army in celebration . . ._

\- _Swords Against a Throne: Being a History of the Rebellion of the Lords Declarant_ by Maester Padramore, published 785 AC

Tywin Lannister had not ridden through the gates of King's Landing to acclamation in years; so long that he had almost forgotten how it felt. To have crowds of thousands line the street as you passed, cheering and calling down the benedictions of the gods, was a heady brew indeed, but Tywin clamped down on himself with an iron fist. _Focus, man. Remember why you are here._

His army filed through the gate in strict order; each company in column of mess groups with their centenar at their head and every man marching in step. He had commanded that his army keep strict discipline, both on the march and in camp, and exerted rigorous pressure on the officers to make it so. There had been grumblings, which had lasted up until last night, when the men were finally informed why exactly they had force-marched across the continent when it was widely known that their lord was no friend of the Targaryens.

He was met at the Great Square by Prince Lewyn Martell of the Kingsguard, gravely elegant in his white armor. He held up a hand, there was a rippling chorus of orders and a braying of trumpets, and the army stamped to a halt, perfectly still. He allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. _This_ was what was possible if people simply _obeyed._ "Lord Tywin," Martell said, hiding the relief he had to be feeling with impeccable poise as he bowed in the saddle, "His Grace King Aerys welcomes you to King's Landing."

"I'm sure he does," Tywin replied politely before turning to the man who rode beside him. "Now, Clegane, if you please."

For such a large man, Gregor Clegane could be surprisingly fast. Martell died without knowing what had hit him. _Almost a pity to kill a man like that, _Tywin mused in the moment of stunned silence as Martell's decapitated body slid out of the saddle. _Nothing personal, Martell, just a matter of business. As far as you were concerned, anyway._ "The city is ours!" Clegane roared into the silence as he flourished his bloody greatsword. "Take it! And take everything in it!"

The Army of the Westerland gave voice to a howl of unthinking bloodlust, like the baying of some great hound, as it split to either side of the street and charged, swords drawn and spears leveled. Within moments the screaming was so loud that Tywin had to shout to make himself understood. "Take your men to the Red Keep!" he shouted in Clegane's ear. "And remember! Once you secure my son, go right on to your other objectives! And make a clean sweep of it! I don't want any loose ends!"

"Yes, lord," Clegane rumbled before turning to the select company that had held ranks just behind him and Tywin while the rest of the army went on the rampage. "Follow me, boys!" he roared and spurred his charger away, his company following at a trot. A foul and unsavory crew, that lot, but every purpose had its tool and every tool its purpose.

He turned to his brother Kevan. "Plant my banner there," he said, indicating the steps leading up to the guild hall of the Alchemists. "I will place my headquarters in the guild hall. See that the men remember that I will have no burning of buildings or other such destruction. Otherwise," he shrugged, "I care not." Kevan bowed, his face inscrutable, and gestured to the company of knights and men-at-arms that functioned as Tywin's bodyguard. As the guardsmen snapped to their tasks, Tywin dismounted, handed his horse off to a squire, and strode into the guild hall as the screams continued unabated. _Insult my wife and make a jest of me, would you, Aerys,_ he thought, as two of his knights opened the doors for him. _How do you like my jest?_

_The Sack of King's Landing lasted three days and nights before Lord Tywin restored order with his usual ruthlessness. By the time it was finished, the heart of the Targaryen dynasty had been torn out. King Aerys had been killed by Ser Jaime Lannister of the Kingsguard under circumstances that to this day remain mysterious, while Queen Rhaella, Princess Elia, Princess Rhaenys, and the infant Prince Aegon had been murdered by Ser Gregor Clegane and Ser Amory Lorch with a brutality that was appalling even in that brutal age. There is no documentary evidence that Clegane and Lorch acted under orders from Tywin, but it is extremely unlikely that they would have committed so heinous a crime without orders from their liege lord. At the very least it seems unlikely that men of such repute as Clegane and Lorch would be charged with securing the royal family unless they were intended to be, to borrow a modern phrase, 'killed while resisting arrest.'_

_Regardless of responsibility, the only Targaryens who remained alive following the Sack of King's Landing were Prince Rhaegar, who was still at large somewhere south of the Riverlands, and Prince Viserys, who had been sent to Dragonstone under the protection of Ser Barristan Selmy during the siege. _

\- _Dragon Declining: The Last Years of the Targaryen Dynasty_ by Ralph Crofter, published 1873 AC


	5. Chapter 5: The Parley

The parley, convened at the invitation of Tywin Lannister, took place in the neutral ground between the three armies. The rebels, drawn up to the northwest of King's Landing, sent Jon Arryn, Hoster Tully, Robert Baratheon, and Eddard Stark. Mace Tyrell served as his own representative, joined by Alester Florent and Baelor Hightower, riding up from where he had arrayed his army opposite the rebels. And out from the city came Tywin Lannnister with his brothers Tygett and Kevan. Each party was accompanied by a single man-at-arms carrying a parley banner, while Tywin was followed by a small wagon that rattle and bumped along the road.

When the negotiating parties all met there was a brief moment of silence as they each weighed each other which was broken by Mace Tyrell. "Well," he said, affecting a cheery tone, "this is a fine puzzle we find ourselves in, isn't it?"

"Indeed," Hoster said coolly, turning to the Lannisters. "I knew you liked to hold grudges, Lord Tywin, but this seems a bit much, even for you. Can we expect a new song? _The Fire of King's Landing_, perhaps?"

"Potentially," Tywin said casually. "Minstrels have such imaginations and are so eager to curry favor." He turned his gaze to Eddard. "You'll be pleased to know, Stark, that we found your brother alive. My own maester is tending to him even now and he is confident that your brother will recover at least some of his former strength, although he is currently too ill to be safely moved."

Eddard nodded deeply. "House Stark thanks you," he said formally. "But I would like to know why you, of all people, would resort to treachery to take your revenge. From what I heard of the Reynes and the Tarbecks, simple force seemed more your style."

Tywin's eyes hardened. "Aerys had my son," he said simply. "He claimed that he was doing me honor by raising him to the Kingsguard, but I knew that Jaime would be a hostage against my loyalty first and a Kingsguard second."

"Interesting as this conversation is, it is not strictly germane to our purpose here," Jon said firmly. "We here hold the fate of Westeros in our hands. Given the fact that Aerys is dead, which information we have on reliable authority," he bowed in the saddle to Tywin, "and that Rhaegar is currently missing and anyways unfit to rule, we presently have no king. The question before us is this; what shall we do about it?"

"There is another heir," Mace pointed out, "if there is any truth to the rumor that Aerys sent Prince Viserys to safety on Dragonstone."

"There is," Tywin said, "but it would be unwise of us to raise him to the kingship. As evidence . . ." he turned in his saddle and gestured to the men on the wagon, who leaped off the seat and began pulling long cloth-wrapped bundles off the bed of the wagon and carrying them before the Lannisters and unwrapping them to reveal corpses.

An older woman who had to be Queen Rhaella was displayed first, her body marred with sword slashes. Then Princess Elia, her beauty ruined by whatever had crushed her skull. Then, hardest and coldest of all, a pair of bodies wrapped in the same cloth who could only be Princess Rhaenys and Prince Aegon. The state of Rhaenys's body was bad enough, cut almost to pieces, but none at the parley could look for long at Aegon, whose head had been not just crushed, but smashed into red ruin.

Mace signed himself with the seven-pointed star with a shaking hand, mimicked by Alester, Baelor, Jon, and Hoster. Eddard clenched his jaw and brought a hand to his mouth for a long moment before he mastered himself. Robert also tightened his jaw, but less than Eddard, and was the first to break the silence. "Is this supposed to be evidence of your commitment to our cause, Lannister?" he asked in a hard voice. "Or is this just supposed to be an object lesson of the perils of crossing you?"

The Lord of Casterly Rock shrugged. "This did not happen by any order of mine," he replied. "I had given orders that they be honorably treated, but even the best of men becomes a beast during a sack."

Mace Tyrell looked up from the bodies and stared at Tywin. "Give me one reason," he said slowly, "why I should not go back to my army and declare war to the knife against you and your dogs, Lannister. These were women and children, Hells take your black soul!"

"I'll give you two reasons," Tywin said coldly. "Firstly, if you declare war against me, I will not rest until I have made a second Castamere of Highgarden. Secondly, the Targaryens are unworthy of your swords, Tyrell. Aerys was a raving madman and Rhaegar is at the very least a kidnapper and almost certainly a rapist as well. As for Viserys," he shrugged. "Who can say but that he will be even more insane than Aerys, in time? Better that we dispense with the Targaryens altogether, and have a dynasty that will act in a sensible fashion."

Jon Arryn raised a finger. "I concede the logic of your position, my lord," he said, "but it would become us and our position to offer some mercy to Viserys. We might offer him the lordship of Dragonstone for the duration of his life, and the right of tithe and tax over the Narrow Sea houses, in return for his public renunciation of his claim to the throne." He turned to Mace Tyrell. "Allow me to give you another reason to not take the Targaryen's part in this war, my lord," he continued. "If you declare for the dragons, you will be declaring war on all the rest of Westeros. The West, the Riverlands, the Vale, the North, and the Stormlands will all march against you. The Iron Isles will leap at the opportunity to reave your shores again. Your only ally will be the Dornish, who hate you only slightly less than they will hate us. And bethink you as well," Jon Arryn's smoothly aristocratic voice hardened, "the consequences of such a war. So long as even one Targaryen lives, there can be no possibility of peace that we will be able to trust. Our only choice, if we ever wish to live in security, will be to strike and spare not, and make the Reach a burned desert from Blackwater Rush to the Redwyne Straits. Are you willing to bring such a fate upon your bannermen, when you have it in your power to end the fighting today?"

Mace glared around the circle of faces, from Tywin's impassive glower to Hoster Tully's unsympathetic stare. "I will pay any price to maintain the honor of my house," he said sullenly. "I will not tell my ancestors that I turned my back on the house that raised mine to lordship."

"Mern Gardener maintained the honor of his house when he rode against Aegon the Conqueror, to the acclaim of the Reach," Eddard Stark interjected. "My ancestor Torrhen Stark swallowed his pride and surrendered his crown to the Conqueror, and was condemned by high and low for it, even his own sons. And here _I_ stand, a Stark of Winterfell, lord of all the North, in my brother's name." Eddard leaned forward. "Where are the Gardeners today, Mace Tyrell?" he asked intently. "Do they rule in Highgarden? Or do their ashes rest on the Field of Fire where the Conqueror's dragons burned them?"

Mace flinched, then looked down at the corpses of the Targaryen women and children for a long moment. At last he looked up. "You will swear for Viserys' life if he renounces his claim to the Iron Throne?" he asked Jon Arryn.

Jon bowed. "In the sight of gods and of men," he proclaimed, "I swear that Viserys Targaryen shall live out his days in complete security if he renounces his claim and abides by the law and peace of the Realm. By the honor of my house, I swear it." He signed himself with the seven-pointed star and kissed the small crystal that hung around his neck.

Tywin shrugged. "I am willing to be satisfied with the vengeance I have already taken," he said diffidently. Let Baratheon and Stark do as they like with Rhaegar and I am content for Viserys to stay on Dragonstone and molder there."

Mace exchanged a glance with Alester Florent, who shrugged eloquently, and turned back to the rebels. "I will need to take this to the lords of my army," he said, "but under these terms I am willing to declare a truce and pull back to the vicinity of Summerhal, if you remain north of the Kingswood and do not reinforce the garrison of Storm's End."

Jon Arryn cocked an eyebrow. "Do you rule the Reach, or do you not?" he asked pointedly. "Our terms of truce are given; if you are willing to accept them then do so. Or should we ask someone else?"

Mace drew himself up, glaring hot-eyed at Jon Arryn. "I rule the Reach," he said coldly, "and I accept truce on the terms you have offered me."

Robert smiled. "Good!" he said, clapping his hands. "Now that that's settled, you will have to excuse me for the nonce, my lords. I have unfinished business with Rhaegar to attend to."

"As do I," Eddard added, stroking the pommel of his arming sword.

"The last report I had was that Rhaegar was seen riding south, towards Dorne," Mace offered, "accompanied by two Kingsguards and a woman. Your sister, I imagine, Lord Stark."

"Why Dorne?" Robert asked, bafflement on his face. "Does he really think that he would find refuge in Dorne after abandoning his wife and children?"

"In Dorne, perhaps not," Tywin mused. "But I imagine that Arthur Dayne would know places in the Marches where a small party could hide themselves away from the rest of the world."

"We'll need an army," Robert said. "I wouldn't put it past the Martells to declare their independence, with the dragons gone."

Mace Tyrell shrugged. "I would have no objection to Lord Stark taking a force into the Marches," he allowed, "but if the Dornish do rise, then it would be best if you were not in their reach, Lord Baratheon." He looked around the circle. "I assume, given that we are setting aside the Targaryens, that Lord Baratheon is your choice for our new king?"

Hoster Tully nodded. "He has the birth, the blood, and the ability," he said. "And I agree that to put yourself within easy reach of the Dornish is unwise, Robert. It is not in the nature of snakes to be trustworthy."

Eddard turned to Robert. "You know I'll find her if she can be found," he said earnestly. "She's my sister, Robert. If I must scour the Marches with fire and sword, I'll find her."

Robert held Eddard's gaze for a moment, his hands tightening on the reins, and then he turned to Mace. "I'm coming as far as Storm's End, with my men," he said. "My brothers are waiting for me."

"Much to Lord Tarly's disgruntlement," Mace said lightly. "I have your word that you will not raise more men than you have here?"

"You do," Robert said shortly, lifting his chin. "My oath on it."

Mace shrugged. "Fair enough, then." He turned to Eddard. "I can provide you a company of scouts who know the Marches like the backs of their hands, if you want them. I'll also send a raven to Doran Martell telling him to keep Oberyn on a leash and not get any ideas of his own, unless he wants my knights coming over the mountains." He smiled wryly. "Snakes may not be trustworthy, but they can be convinced to be cautious."

Eddard bowed. "My thanks, Lord Tyrell," he said formally. "I will not forget your assistance in this quest."

Mace bowed solemnly.


	6. Chapter 6: Loss and Resolve

When Eddard cantered back through the gates of King's Landing nine months later, he did so empty-handed and full of dread. After riding south with Mace Tyrell and Robert to terminate the siege of Storm's End and pick up the company of guides he had been offered, he had descended on the Dornish Marches with two thousand men and searched them from Grandview to Starfall. Every gorge, ravine, draw, and gully was combed from end to end, marcher villages were turned inside out by hard-eyed riders, and the aid of the Dornish marcher lords was enlisted with the promise of revenge against the man who abandoned Elia of Dorne to a gruesome fate.

All in vain. The terrain had yielded only stony ground and elusive game, the villages had been devoid of anything resembling a Targaryen prince, a Stark lady, or a Kingsguard knight, and the Dornish lords entrusted with guarding the border passes all swore that they had not seen Rhaegar since at least the Tourney of Harrenhal. The only thing Eddard hadn't resorted to in the search for his sister was torture, for fear of inciting reprisals from the marcher lords. In the end, Eddard had called off the search when a raven from King's Landing reached him at Uplands. It had consisted of only eight words: _Come to King's Landing at once. Jon Arryn._

So Eddard had sent riders out to his men telling them that the search was off and rode back to King's Landing at the head of the company of lordlings that had followed him south. They had ridden their horses almost to foundering, securing remounts as they could from the Reacher lords whose keeps they happened across. In one stretch between Horn Hill and Cider Hall they averaged thirty-five miles a day for twenty days, at the cost of having to replace half of their horses. Eddard suspected that he had been cheated at least twice on the price of remounts, but he hadn't pursued the matter. Speed had been the only priority.

As they clattered through the King's Gate in a chilling drizzle, they were met by Arryn men and hastily conducted to the Red Keep, where Jon Arryn met Eddard in a small chamber near the royal apartments in Maegor's Holdfast.

"There is news," Jon said gravely, his face even more lined than Eddard remembered. "Of Rhaegar and your sister."

Eddard stiffened. "Where are they?" he asked intently, hardly daring to hope.

"Rhaegar is in Myr," Jon said, "a guest of the Conclave of Magisters. He summons all leal men to join him."

"And Lyanna?" Eddard pressed, hope rising in his chest.

"Was heavily pregnant when she and Rhaegar took ship from Oldtown, though Leyton Hightower swears the ship was stolen. She went into labor while they were still at sea. I'm so sorry, Ned," Jon said, pain evident on his face, "but neither Lyanna nor her daughter survived. They were buried at sea off the coast of Dorne."

Eddard swayed as if struck by a hammer. _Lya. Gods, no. Not her, not her too._ He sank into a chair and buried his face in his hands. His father was dead, his brother sorely injured by the Mad King, and now his sister was dead. All because of Rhaegar's madness. Eddard wanted to scream his lungs out, rend Rhaegar limb from limb with his bare hands, crawl into a hole and pull the hole in on top of himself, call down a killing blizzard from the farthest North to bury the land in ice, raise the seas and drown the world of men.

But he could do none of these things. With his father dead and Brandon still bedridden, he was Lord of Winterfell. And lordship came with responsibilities. He forced himself to look up at his foster-father, who had respectfully stood back to leave him with his grief. "Robert?" he asked woodenly.

"Took it even worse than you did," Jon replied heavily. "He hasn't come out of his chamber in days, hardly eats. Ned, you need to talk to him; he won't listen to me."

"I'll talk to him," Eddard said, pushing himself out of the chair.

Jon looked him in the eye. "He has to marry, Ned," he said simply. "Not now, and not for a time yet, but soon. He needs an heir, and we need allies. Dorne murmurs of vengeance against Elia's murderers, the Reacher lords are restive, and Tywin Lannister will expect a reward for his contribution to our cause."

"You would reward the murder of children by making their murderer the goodfather of the King of Westeros?" Eddard snapped, the blunted anger sharpening anew.

"I would make a peace that outlives Robert," Jon Arryn replied. "For that, we need the swords of the Westerlands. And to get the Westerlands, we need Tywin Lannister." The Lord of the Eyrie shook his head. "Just talk to him, Ned. You're the only one he might listen to."

Eddard could only nod as he stumbled out of the chamber and made his way to the king's bedchamber. He didn't bother knocking as he went in.

"Damn you, I said get out!" Robert shouted, his words slurred with more than drink. "That's a buggering order from your buggering king!"

The king's bedchamber was normally sumptuously appointed, but now it looked like a herd of aurochs had stampeded through. Desk, chairs, sideboard, and tables were all shattered to flinders, whether by hammerblows or simply being thrown against the walls was anyone's guess. The royal bed was too massive to be treated so, but the linens had been torn off and shredded. The whole room stank of vomit, alcohol, and unwashed man. Robert staggered out of the shadows, as unsteady as a harborside drunkard, his clothes disheveled, his crown askew, and a wineskin in his hand. His beard, normally neatly trimmed, had turned shaggy and his hair was lank and matted.

"Didn't you fucking hear me, you . . ." Robert stopped mid-roar, the anger draining from his blotchy face. "Ned," he said brokenly.

"I heard," Eddard said simply.

The two foster-brothers stood looking at each other for a long moment, and then crashed together in the embrace of men whose world has collapsed. They wound up sitting side by side on the floor against the wall, passing the wineskin back and forth unenthusiastically as the tears streamed down their faces.

"I loved her, Ned," Robert blurted out through his sobs. "More than anyone."

"I know, Robert," Ned replied, tipping the wineskin up for a swallow and passing back to Robert who drained it in a long pull.

"And that bastard worm who murdered her thumbs his nose at us across the Narrow Sea," Robert said thickly, dropping the wineskin at his feet with a disgusted expression. "The whoreson rapist who murdered our Lyanna dares to name himself a fucking king."

"Yes," Eddard said, grief crystallizing into anger. "He must answer for what he has done."

Robert studied his hands where they rested on his knees. "Jon wants me to marry the Lannister girl," he said abruptly. "Cersei, old Tywin's daughter. Brought it up twice before I threw him out. I need to apologize to him for that."

"He wants to keep you on your throne," Eddard said dully. "Lannister swords would help with that."

"Fuck the Lannisters," Robert rumbled. "Fuck their swords. And fuck the Iron Throne. I didn't ask for it and I don't want it. I'll not sit on that fucking chair until I can impale Rhaegar fucking Targaryen's head on its highest spike."

He didn't ask Eddard to bear him witness, nor did he invoke any of the gods, but Eddard knew an oath when he heard one.

"So mote it be," he said softly.


	7. Chapter 7: Direwolves

The two foster-brothers parted ways shortly after, Robert to wash and shave and Eddard to seek out the lords who had followed his father south, first for a wedding and then to war. He found them in a wing of the keep adjacent to the godswood, probably thanks to Jon Arryn being his thorough self. When Eddard walked into the hall that had become the de facto council chamber of the northern lords, he was greeted by a wave of condolences from the assembled lords, who had all heard the news of Lyanna's death. Even the saturnine Roose Bolton offered his hand, while the Greatjon would not allow anyone to sit until a harper had played a lament and the company drank the arval, the grave-ale, without which ancient custom held that the dead would not lie quietly in their graves. Lyanna and her daughter had no grave but a patch of ocean on the far side of a continent from Winterfell, but the gods cared not where their children lay, so long as the rites were properly observed.

After the arval was drunk and the harper dismissed with a pouch of gold, the talk turned to Eddard's account of his meeting with Robert, and what might come of it.

"So you'll be bound for Myr, then," said Galbart Glover. "You'll be needing some good sword-arms, I imagine, my lord."

"They would certainly be helpful," Eddard replied. "But I'm not your lord, Galbart; Brandon is."

"Yes, about that," said Wyman Manderly, looking into his goblet as if it held the answer to all of life's questions.

Eddard looked around the suddenly quiet hall. Most of the lords didn't meet his gaze, although the Greatjon and Roose Bolton returned it squarely, as did Hugo Wull and Jorah Mormont. "Whatever it is," Eddard said finally, "spit it out or swallow it. I'm not in the mood for games."

"Och, damn ye all for a pack o' fidgety auld wimmen," Hugo Wull spat disgustedly at his fellow lords before turning to Eddard. "The Lannister lied to ye, Ned," he said simply. "When he said yer brother would regain his auld strength."

Eddard closed his eyes. Of course. He should have suspected falsehoods from Tywin Lannister, when the man had just sacked a city through treachery. Especially since by that time Brandon had been in the Mad King's power for the better part of three months. "How bad is he?" he asked wearily.

"He may walk again," Wyman said slowly. "With crutches. If he is very lucky, he may be able to get away with using a cane. That mad bastard Aerys had his kneecaps broken, among other things." Everyone in the room winced; to be injured so was to be crippled, almost certainly for life. "As for traveling any kind of distance . . ." Wyman shook his head. "Only in a wheelhouse, if that. He won't be able to ride a horse worth the name for any length of time."

Eddard gently pinched the bridge of his nose. Brandon had been so vibrant, so full of energy and motion and _life_, that the idea of him crippled was almost unthinkable. "And you think . . . what? That he should renounce his claim?" he asked, the words heavy on the air.

"He can't rule the North from a chair, Ned, much less a sickbed," the Greatjon said soberly. "He _has _to renounce his claim. How can he pass sentence without being able to swing the sword?"

"My lord," Roose Bolton said in his soft, soft voice, "you stood in your brother's stead when he married the Tully girl by proxy, and swore that you would fulfill his oaths if he were to die or be otherwise rendered incapable. Any reasonable man would agree that your brother's injuries would render him incapable of fulfilling his oaths."

"Have they consummated their marriage?" Eddard asked bluntly. He didn't wait for answers. "If Brandon can consummate the marriage, then he can keep his oaths," he proclaimed, rising from his chair. "Let me be clear, my lords; I will _not_ usurp my brother's claim to Winterfell, or the overlordship of the North. It is not in me to betray my blood." With that, Eddard marched out of the hall and strode down the hall, first to his own chambers and then to those inhabited by his brother, where the guards admitted him without question.

Brandon was propped up against the head of his bed, his legs encased in heavy splints. His chest was swathed in bandages, his fingertips were bandaged as well, and there was a wide scar around his throat. But what claimed Eddard's attention was the three-headed dragon branded onto his brother's forehead.

"Not a pretty sight, eh?" Brandon asked with what Eddard could tell was forced levity, a slight rasp in his voice. "Aerys said it was so I would remember my true allegiance whenever I looked in a mirror."

Eddard dropped his gaze.

"Sit down, man," Brandon said, gesturing to a chair beside his bed. "I'd offer you some wine, but I'm afraid I drank all that I was allowed for the day by noon. The maester who's seeing to me has some _odd_ ideas about the healthfulness of wine, especially in combination with milk of the poppy."

"I've drunk my fill tonight, anyways," Eddard said, extending Ice across the space between him and his brother. "This belongs to you now."

Brandon's eyes lit at the sight of House Stark's ancestral blade, which he accepted with shaking hands. "Thank you, Ned," he said simply, laying it across his lap. "Not that it matters much, as I'll never wield it."

"Brandon . . ."

"Aerys and his torturers broke me, Ned," Brandon said bluntly. "The broken ribs and the strained joints are healing nicely, I am told, and my fingernails are growing back as we speak, but my knees will never work properly again." He gestured vaguely at his legs. "I won't be able to walk, hardly, much less ride. My faithful bannermen," the sudden vitriol in his voice was shocking, "will not accept me as their liegelord." His eyes on Eddard's face sharpened. "Especially not when I have two healthy brothers, one of whom has made quite a name for himself already."

Eddard shook his head. "I don't want it," he replied. "And even if I wanted it, I couldn't take it. Not with Rhaegar still alive."

Brandon nodded. "So you and Baratheon mean it." At Eddard's shocked expression he snorted lightly. "I'm crippled, brother, not deaf. I have eyes and ears beyond this room, even in my condition." He paused, continued. "If you are set on this, then you must know that you can never again set foot in the North. To have a crippled Lord of Winterfell with a healthy and well-regarded brother would mean civil war in the end, any protestations of unwillingness to the contrary."

Eddard bowed his head. "I can make my own way," he said, biting back the pain and grief. "If nothing else, I can always find a place in Robert's household."

Brandon nodded. "Like enough," he said, before reaching across to grip Eddard's clasped hands. "Kill Rhaegar," he said fiercely, his eyes blazing. "If it's the last thing you do, Ned, kill that kidnapping bastard. Kill him, kill Viserys, and kill any children they may have. Burn the Targaryens out of the world, root and branch, if it takes your whole lifetime and your last copper. Kill them for our father and our sister."

Eddard met his brother's eyes. "Justice and vengeance, my lord," he said decisively. "Justice for Lyanna, vengeance for Father. I swear it on this sword," he reached out and touched the tip of Ice's scabbard, "and by the honor of our House."

"So mote it be," Brandon intoned.


	8. Chapter 8: Robert the Brief

Robert had not yet formed a small council, but a makeshift government had taken shape in the meantime. Jon Arryn stood at its head, as the elder statesman of the victorious rebels, while Hoster Tully acted as his lieutenant. With the lifting of the Siege of Storm's End, Robert's brother Stannis had followed him back to the city and now sat on the council by right of his kinship to Robert and his status among the stormlords, who had been impressed at his cool defiance of Randyll Tarly. Mace Tyrell and Tywin Lannister also claimed seats at the council table by right of their status and their armies. The Northmen had been represented by Wyman Manderly until Eddard's return from the Dornish Marches, at which point Eddard had become the ranking lord among the Northmen, although he had publically proclaimed that he was only acting in Brandon's name and at his direction. Quellon Greyjoy had made his way to King's Landing to pay his homage to the new king, but he had no place on the council; centuries of reaving had seen to that. From Dorne not even ravens had come, beyond a short warning from Doran Martell that any attempt to invade Dorne would be resisted to the death by every man, woman, and child in that strange principality.

The council should have been reasonably harmonious, considering that everyone on it was either a supporter of the new dynasty or at least reconciled to it. This was not the case, as Eddard was witnessing. Eddard knew himself to be all but deaf and blind compared to Jon Arryn's political astuteness, but even he could feel the tension in the air.

"We have news that the royal fleet has sailed from Dragonstone to Myr and pledged sword and sail to Rhaegar," Tywin Lannister said in his impassive voice, his doublet immaculate. "It appears that Viserys sailed with them, as did most of the strength of the Narrow Sea and Crackclaw Point. Celtigar, Bar Emmon, Brune, Sunglass, Velaryon, Crabb, Hardy . . ."

"Scraps, all of them," Robert spat, his face still flushed but looking much better for a trim and a bath. With the crown on properly he even looked regal, if you overlooked the redness of his features. "Barely a thousand swords between the pack of them. We broke the strength of the Crownlands in the hedgerow fighting."

"And what remains of them is going over the sea as fast as they can find ships," Mace Tyrell said, as Eddard breathed a sigh of mild relief. At least his vow to kill Viserys would no longer be breaking the peace that had concluded the Rebellion. The young dragon had chosen his fate when he stepped on the ship that carried him to Essos. "And Rhaegar will not have to rely on exiles alone; Lord Merryweather has sent me word from his exile in Pentos that Rhaegar has been negotiating with sellswords."

"Where is he getting the money for them?" Hoster Tully asked. "He had to flee Westeros with nothing more than what he carried on him."

"Merryweather says that he is promising to pay them handsomely out of the royal treasury when he retakes King's Landing," Mace replied. "And he is also promising lordships for the officers, and land for those men who wish it."

"Interesting," Tywin mused. "Does Merryweather charge a price for this information?"

Mace shook his head. "Only that his exile be lifted and he be restored to his title and lands of Longtable," he replied. "I think it not too great a reward for the risk he is undertaking, to inform on Rhaegar where we cannot easily protect or rescue him."

Hoster shrugged. "If he can give us information more valuable than gossip we can learn from any sailor from across the Narrow Sea, then he might deserve restoration," he said. "Otherwise, if he chooses to risk his skin in the game of shadows, that's his own affair. Although I doubt the Conclave would move against Pentos, for fear of challenging the Titan."

"I will draft letters for the Conclave of Magisters," Jon said, his hair much greyer than Eddard ever remembered it being. "They will not lightly defy the might of the Seven Kingdoms."

"Letters," Eddard said flatly. "My sister's murderer sits in Myr as the guest of the Conclave and recruits an army and you would send _letters_. Shall I hold Rhaegar's arms for you while you beat him to death with one?"

"Finally some sense," Robert said, pointing at Eddard. "Be damned to your letters, Jon; we don't need to write, we need to _act_! We need to go over to Myr and drag Rhaegar out of it by his bloody silver hair!"

"How do you propose to do that without a fleet?" Stannis asked, his dour face skeptical. "We don't have one, the Graftons have sailed to join Rhaegar and taken their fleet with them, and I would rather entrust you to a guard of Dornishmen than see you set foot on a Redwyne deck." Stannis returned Mace Tyrell's glare with a glower of his own; the Redwyne fleet had blockaded Storm's End until the siege had been raised. The siege had ended before starvation set in, but Stannis, it seemed, was not the type to let go of grudges.

"Robert," Jon said wearily, "I know you want Rhaegar's head on a pike, but you can't just go haring off across the Narrow Sea for revenge's sake. Who will be our king if you die at sea, or on some foreign field? I can tell you right now that the Reach will not quietly accept Stannis as king. At the very least, you need an heir of your body before you go overseas." Left unspoken was the threat of a renewed civil war. Jon had to be in a cold fury about the Graftons defecting, while both Hoster and Mace looked harassed. Eddard had heard that there were men among the Riverlords and the Reachlords who were dissatisfied with the new dynasty, but none that dared act on it. Not without something to tip them over the edge.

"Which will take years," Robert growled. "Years in which Rhaegar will turn Myr into a fortress loyal to him and raise an army to come back and take all our heads. Damn it, Jon, we don't _have_ years! We need to crush the dragons _now_, before they regain their strength and come back for their own revenge!"

"Damn it, Robert, you are not in business for yourself!" Jon snapped, his eyes suddenly blazing fury. "You are a king now; your responsibility to the realm outweighs your own desires. You cannot simply go charging over all creation simply for vengeance, not when your people need you here, alive and ruling over them."

Robert glared at his foster-father. "I have sworn to avenge Lyanna's blood upon the cur that raped and murdered her," he snarled. "Would you have me break that oath?"

"If you mean to be a king, then yes," Jon said pitilessly.

"I agree with Lord Arryn," said Tywin Lannister. "Kings do not have the luxury of revenge."

Robert flinched as if he had been slapped, then looked down at the table he was leaning over, his fists braced against the surface of the table. "I cannot rest while Lyanna's murderer walks the earth," he said finally after a terrible moment of silence. "As the gods are my witness, I will not." He took off his crown and tossed it to Stannis, who caught it by sheer reflex. "It's yours," he said, "don't break it."

"I beg your pardon?" Stannis asked, visibly taken aback.

"You heard me," Robert said, turning to Jon, who was staring at him in shock. "I quit, resign, abdicate, whatever the word is, I do it. Stannis can have the throne and Lannister's daughter with it; I'm going to Myr if I have to bloody _swim_ there." He turned to Eddard. "Ned, you with me?"

"From this day until my last day," Eddard said fervently. "Justice and vengeance."


	9. Chapter 9: The Gathering of Eagles

Jon Arryn raged, Tywin Lannister fumed, and Mace Tyrell all but begged on bended knee but Robert's mind was made up. He would go to Myr and take revenge on Rhaegar Targaryen and gods pity the poor bugger who tried to stop him. The most that Jon could get out of them was that Robert wait a few months before making his abdication official and sailing away, and that largely because Eddard had agreed with him; after all, they would need to find men to fight at their side and ships to carry them. Robert's agreement to delay, however, did not stop him from refusing to wear a crown ("heavy blasted thing") or sit on the Iron Throne ("hideous old thing, and damned uncomfortable").

They got their first recruit three days later, when Stannis brought up the matter of Jaime Lannister.

"Ser Jaime can't be charged with Aerys's murder," was Jon's instant response. "It's not practicable."

"He broke a sacred oath," Stannis said doggedly. "He must answer for it."

"He broke that oath to kill a mad king," Tywin answered, glowering at the younger Baratheon. "He acted in good faith with his vow as a knight to uphold justice."

"Then have him take the black," Ned interjected. "The good of his intent does not outweigh the wrong of his actions."

Hoster Tully raised a hand. "I have an idea," he said. "Ser Jaime must clearly be dismissed from the Kingsguard for the killing of Aerys; mad though he was, he was still his king. But instead of being sent to the Wall, let his sentence be to follow Robert overseas. He broke an oath to the Seven; let him fight at Robert's side for seven years as penance." The riverlord's mouth quirked in a half-smile. "I'm sure some septon will be able to make a sermon out of it."

Robert shrugged. "I have no objections," he said, and the matter was concluded. Tywin was less than enthused at the thought of his heir being effectively banished for most of a decade, despite the High Septon's endorsement of the proposition, but he was mollified by Stannis agreeing to marry his daughter Cersei. The fact that Stannis ground out his acquiescence through clenched teeth seemed to be of little import to him as he promptly sent word to Casterly Rock for Cersei to make her way to King's Landing.

By then word had got out of Robert's intent to pursue Rhaegar across the Narrow Sea and Robert and Eddard were swarmed with volunteers. Robert was hugely popular in the Stormlands, quite a few of the northern lords made no secret of their preferring Eddard to Brandon, and they had both made friends in the Vale during their years at the Eyrie. But the prize catch was Brynden Tully, who walked up to them one day and announced that he was going with them.

"Hoster's been after me to marry again," he explained, shrugging as if this explained everything. "I think I have another war left in me."

Robert had accepted his services in a heartbeat; when it came to famous names, Brynden Tully was only a step or two below Arthur Dayne and Barristan Selmy. Robert and Eddard were only newly famous themselves, but the Blackfish had a name that could draw men from across the continent, and a reputation second only to a very few as a man of war.

With the Blackfish taking over much of the legwork of recruiting, the framework of an army began to take shape around King's Landing. Eddard had to outright command Howland Reed to go back to Greywater Watch to join his wife for the birth of their first child, but he accepted half of Howland's crannogmen to serve as his scouts. The Greatjon swore himself and a third of his men to the venture, naming his uncles joint castellans of Last Hearth in his absence. Jorah Mormont went home to Bear Island but his aunt Maege remained with a score of men-at-arms and shield-women, including her daughter Dacey. Rickard Karstark and Medger Cerwyn pled responsibilities at home, but Karstark's brother Arnulf remained with a company of heavy horse, while Cerwyn gave Eddard twenty riders to serve as his household men. Ser Wendel Manderly, Lord Wyman's second son, pledged his sword and ten knights, along with a company of two hundred foot. Leobald Tallhart brought a company of foot with which to seek his fortune, and Ser Mark Ryswell brought a mixed company of horse and mounted infantry. Ethan Glover, the stamp of the black cells still on his gaunt face and haunted eyes, joined as well with a dozen riders, while the mountain clans provided a company of men who would have 'gone hunting' in the next winter, either old men or poor ones but nonetheless doughty.

Nor were the Northmen alone in volunteering. Minor lords, knights, and second and third sons of noble houses from across the Stormlands all but swarmed northward to pledge sword and lance to Robert, often bringing up to a score of followers with them. Brynden picked over the Riverlander host, choosing the best he could find that were willing to volunteer, many of them fellow veterans of the War of the Ninepenny Kings. Ser Lyn Corbray, newly knighted after the hedgerow battles, came from the Valemen, explaining that he was unwilling to go home to a keep ruled by his brother, professing a desire to see Essos, and bringing thirty hedge knights and freeriders with him, along with a slew of other second and third sons of the nobility and chivalry of the Vale.

It was enough to make Eddard despair. With Robert and Jaime uninterested in 'counting coppers' and the Blackfish too busy recruiting, it fell to Eddard to manage their accounts and he quickly found it a demoralizing task. The royal treasury had been full when Robert claimed it by right of conquest, but their army was almost three thousand strong already and every man of them needed what Brynden referred to as the three B's; bed, board, and beer. Eddard was spending gold like water simply keeping everyone fed and housed and the thousand men that Tywin Lannister had promised had yet to arrive.

Nor was that their only problem. Stannis had spoken truly when he questioned Robert's ability to take Myr without a fleet. There were not enough ships in King's Landing available for hire to carry even a quarter of their growing army and even if there were, none of them were warships. If Rhaegar's fleet caught them mid-crossing, or even in the process of debarking, they would be hideously vulnerable. Against the hundred galleys and two score of carracks that the Royal Fleet could field, the company could field one carrack, Gerion Lannister's _Laughing Lion_, and twenty Ironborn longships, courtesy of Quellon Greyjoy and commanded by his son Victarion and his master-at-arms Dagmer Cleftjaw. Even Robert, who cared but little for odds of any sort, was unwilling to accept the risk of interception against such odds, even if they had enough ships to take them across in the first place. Warships were already being built, but it would take months before they were ready; months in which the company would run out of money and fall apart like a rotten carcass.

Finally, a Braavosi entered the company's camp and begged an audience with Robert. Brought before Robert, who now held court in the Small Council chamber, he introduced himself as an agent of the Iron Bank, come to take the measure of the new dynasty. Having done so, and learned of Robert's vow to abdicate and cross the Narrow Sea to pursue Rhaegar, he invited Robert or a representative empowered to speak in his name to come to Braavos for consultations with the leading keyholders of the Iron Bank. After Robert promised to consider the invitation and dismissed the Braavosi, Eddard wasted no time in telling him that they had to at least hear what the Braavosi had to say. The Braavosi fleet was perhaps the most powerful in the world, so puissant that even the Royal Fleet would hesitate to engage it. If they could acquire that fleet's services, even if only once, it would solve a good third of their problems and put them in a position to solve the rest.

Robert agreed, and promptly named Eddard as his representative, for the bond of trust between them and Eddard's knowledge of their company's accounts, and Gerion Lannister as his second, for his knowledge of the Free Cities. The two sailed on the next tide, armed with a letter of introduction from the Iron Bank's representative and a mandate from Robert to acquire the use of every ship they could get their hands on.

Neither Eddard nor Gerion knew that their voyage would one day be considered one of the turning points of history, and Eddard, for one, would not have cared for the first few days. He was too busy being seasick. 


	10. Chapter 10: The Titan's Favor

After an uneventful crossing, Eddard and Gerion landed in Braavos, with much different reactions. Gerion stepped onto the dock with a light spring in his step and a deep sigh, as of a man who finds himself in an old and favored haunt. Eddard, by contrast, trudged onto the dock carefully, and with a prayer of thanksgiving that he was off that never-to-be-sufficiently-damned ship. His seasickness had abated somewhat, but he had remained queasy for the whole trip. He fairly dreaded returning to King's Landing, and the voyage that would be necessary to take the company to Braavos.

After securing rooms at a tavern convenient to Ragman's Harbor, the pair rested for a day before renting one of the long, slender boats that poled the canals of the city and the services of an oarsman, who paddled them through the winding canals to the Iron Bank.

The Iron Bank of Braavos was a forbidding structure, a massive construction of white and grey marble that rivaled the Great Sept of Baelor for size, although to Eddard's mind it was much more tastefully decorated with its plain white columns and lack of gaudy stained-glass windows or intricate statuary. The whole building seemed to exude not just power, but _surety _of power, like a man so strong that he had no need to boast of his might. When Eddard looked at the Iron Bank, two days after he and Gerion landed in Braavos, the aura of authority that seemed to radiate from the building irrationally reminded him of his father, or Tywin Lannister, as if someone had taken the air of reflexive dominance that those men had possessed and instilled it into the structure.

Squaring his shoulders almost self-consciously, Eddard led Gerion through the doors of the Iron Bank and presented their letter of introduction to the clerk at the front desk. This clerk read the letter with eyes that went from skeptical to staring in what had to be record time and bade them wait before scurrying away at such speed that the skirts of his tunic flapped behind him. A return message invited them to the manse of Bassanio Scalizzeri three days hence, to join a feast that Magister Scalizzeri was hosting for certain keyholders of the Bank. And so five days after landing in Braavos Eddard Stark and Gerion Lannister donned the finest clothes they had brought and took a boat to House Scalizzeri, where they were bowed in and announced with as much ceremony as would have taken place in the Red Keep.

The food was excellent, the wine even better, and the entertainment provided by a troupe of musicians and jugglers was superb, but Eddard couldn't help but feel like a performing bear. Compared to the neat and spare Braavosi in their somber greys and browns, even his relatively modest doublet, white linen with the grey direwolf embroidered in silver thread under the upward-facing crescent that marked him as the second son of his house, stood out like a star in the night sky, although he paled next to Gerion's flame-bright crimson tunic with the lion rampant of Lannister embroidered in cloth-of-gold.

The comparison wasn't helped by the difference in body type between the two Westerosi and their Braavosi hosts. Neither Eddard nor Gerion was particularly large, by Westerosi standards, but they had spent almost all of their lives training to arms. Consequently, they were both broad-shouldered and deep-chested men, with forearms so muscular that they flowed into their hands without much in the way of indentation at the wrist. Compared to the Braavosi, who were slimly-built for the most part except for one or two of great corpulence, Eddard felt like a troll. To be sure, a few of them looked like men who had some skill at arms, but they were still lean and wiry men, as slender as the blades of their swords.

At least the lady seated next to him was intelligent and sensible enough not to press him too closely for details about Westeros in general and the North particularly. Eddard was in no mood to discuss the home he would never return to.

After the last of the food was cleared away, a servant in the livery of the Scalizzeri appeared at Eddard's elbow. "My lord," he said in a low voice, "the keyholders retire to the roof for digestives and wish to invite you. Your friend will be well entertained while you converse with the keyholders." Eddard glanced over at Gerion and saw that he was deep in conversation with a stunningly beautiful woman with dark brown skin and black hair. "Lady Bellonara Otherys," the servant said, a ghost of a smile flitting across his face, "whom men call the Black Pearl of Braavos. Your friend will be _well_ entertained, my lord, if I am any judge."

Eddard shrugged. They hardly had the money to spend on a courtesan, especially one who could command the price that the Black Pearl could, but what Gerion did with his own money was his business; it wasn't as if the man was married. "Lead on," he said to the servant, who bowed and led him to a staircase that emptied onto the roof of the manse.

Evidently, it was a custom for guests to retire to the roof after dinner, for the roof was broad and flat, topped with a linen canopy and strewn with chairs, couches, and stools. Many were already filled by men in the drab attire of keyholders, although one man, a slight fellow who seemed only a few years older than Eddard with curly black hair, a great beak of a nose, and a body that seemed to be made of sticks and rawhide was wearing swordsman's leathers relieved only by a small badge on his left breast of a sword, the hilt up and the point down. This man immediately caught Eddard's attention by the way he sat on his stool; not heavily or sprawling as the others were, but erect and with his legs coiled under him, ready to spring in any direction. Eddard had known men in Westeros who sat like that. They had invariably been men who earned their daily bread by killing people.

"I see that a wolf recognizes a tiger when he sees one," Bassanio Scalizzeri said lightly. "Be at ease, Ser Eddard, you are in no danger from this man. Allow me to present Syrio Forel, First Sword of Braavos. Master Forel, I present to you Eddard Stark, who is here to represent King Robert Baratheon of Westeros."

Eddard and Syrio exchanged slight bows as Eddard's nerves sharpened. First Sword, Gerion had told him, was the title given to the personal champion and chief bodyguard of the Sealord. Whatever was going on here, the Sealord had an interest in it.

And for one of such youth to hold such a post said much about them. Eddard knew little of the First Sword, beyond what Gerion had told him, but he imagined that the requirements to receive the title were equivalent to those required to join the Kingsguard. Perhaps not knighthood, but certainly valor, prowess, honor, and a willingness to put yourself between your sovereign and an arrowstorm.

A trio of silent servants carrying trays presented the keyholders and Eddard with a selection of liquors as they discussed trade and ships lightly while Eddard admired the view of the city and then withdrew, bowing. Eddard noted that Syrio had taken nothing, and that the eyes of the keyholders all turned to him as soon as the servants left.

"We are told, Ser Eddard," said a keyholder so fat he managed to fill an entire couch by himself, "that you come in search of ships."

"As many as can be hired," Eddard replied, tearing his eyes away from the First Sword of Braavos. "We have sore need of them."

"To conquer Myr?" another keyholder asked. "We have no love for the slaveholding cities but it would be an ill thing if the current balance between the daughters of Valyria were too greatly disturbed. Peace is not something to be lightly cast aside."

"We have no quarrel with Myr," Eddard said. "Only the kidnapper and murderer who hides behind her walls, and the men who shield him."

"Yes, the Targaryen prince who now calls himself a king," mused a third keyholder. "We are told that he pays court to the daughter of one who sits high in the Conclave of Magisters, and has done the city good service on the borders against Tyrosh and Lys. We believe," he said softly, his eyes darting around the other keyholders, "that the Targaryen and Myr may soon become inseparable; in fact if not in name."

Eddard narrowed his eyes. _So Rhaegar thinks to find himself a new throne, eh?_ "If that is so, then so much the worse for Myr," he said.

The eyes of the keyholders sharpened upon him, but none more so than the eyes of Syrio Forel. "And what, we wonder, shall become of the other Targaryen prince," asked a fourth keyholder, this one a grave-faced man with a short patch of beard under his lower lip and a pair of mustachios that had to be a foot long from end to end. "The sins of the fathers are not always inherited by their sons, but their possessions and aspirations are. And boys become men, in the fullness of time."

Eddard ignored the keyholder and met the gaze of the First Sword of Braavos. "I have sworn," he said, trying to sound like his foster-father passing judgment, "to make an ending of House Targaryen. I have sworn on the honor of my House that I shall destroy them root and branch, so that the line of the Conqueror shall be no more. In this I am joined by His Grace King Robert, and by the other lords and knights of our company."

The First Sword studied him for a long moment and then nodded sharply. "Well and so," he said in a lilting voice. "He will do, masters, as will his king, if he sends such a man to treat on his behalf."

The keyholders relaxed visibly. "Our apologies for the interrogation, Ser Eddard," said Bassanio, sipping from his glass, "but we did not know what sort of man your king had sent, or what your true intentions were. We will provide you the use of ships to carry your company across the Narrow Sea, and loan you gold besides, if you will do us a service."

Eddard was rocked, but strove manfully not to show it. He had not expected the Iron Bank to be so generous. "What manner of service, my lords?" he asked, swirling the drink in his glass.

"What know you of our city's relationship to Pentos?" asked Bassanio.

Eddard frowned. "I know that Pentos stands as a vassal to Braavos," he said carefully, "and that it is forbidden from maintaining either an army or a fleet worth the name."

"Accurate enough," said the fat keyholder. "In addition to which, we have forbidden Pentos from participating in the slave trade or from keeping slaves. You must understand, Ser Eddard," the fat keyholder's face was flushed, "that slavery is anathema to us. The First Law of Braavos is that no man, woman, or child shall be a slave, a bondsman, or a thrall. We who are children of old Valyria's escaped slaves can never be reconciled to the practice of slavery."

"No more can we," Eddard replied. "Both the Old Gods and the Seven proclaim slavery an abomination."

The keyholders murmured approbation, a few of them tapping their feet against the roof.

"Then you will understand our disgust at learning that the slave trade is alive and well in Pentos today," said the fat keyholder.

Eddard cocked an eyebrow. "Despite the fact that Braavos forbids it?"

"When the old First Sword died," Syrio Forel interjected, "the Sealord announced that he would interview candidates to be the next First Sword. He met with them in a parlor, holding on his lap a cat. In the course of their conversation, the Sealord would comment on this cat, and invite comment from the men he interviewed. All agreed that it was a most wondrous cat, of unusual beauty and obviously of great puissance, clearly a mighty specimen from some exotic land. At last, the Sealord interviewed me. And when he asked me what I thought of the cat I said that he was a most excellent cat, of the sort that I saw every day in the alleys of our city. Other men were stronger, faster, of greater renown, but I was named First Sword of Braavos, because I alone saw the cat for what he truly was and spoke truly to the Sealord. I have seen Pentos, Ser Eddard," Syrio continued, his lilting voice hardening, "and I tell you truly that I saw slaves on every street and in every great house. The Pentoshi magisters may call them free bond servants, as they do, but when a servant's bed and board and clothing is worth more than their hire, and they have no right to petition for higher wages or seek work elsewhere, then that servant is a slave and nothing else."

"Normally, we would attend to this ourselves," said Bassanio, "but much of our strength is committed elsewhere. War is not only found in Westeros."

"To hold Norvos and Qohor at bay, and occasionally to assist them in defending their territories along the upper Rhoyne from Volantis, requires just over a third of our strength in any given year," Syrio supplied. "Of the rest, much of it is deployed aboard our ships, which range from the western shore of Westeros to Yi-ti. Some few ships even sail to Asshai-by-the-Shadow, though never more than two or three a year attempt _that_ voyaging. The remainder is garrisoned at the Arsenal or the Titan, and guards the city. To send a force to Pentos to enforce the laws against slavery would leave us hideously vulnerable."

"In addition to which," the fat keyholder said, "to enforce our rule in Pentos with our current forces would destabilize the current balance of power among the Free Cities. We are perhaps the strongest of Valyria's daughters, but we are not so powerful that we can lightly enter into a war with Myr or Lys or Tyrosh, any more than they can with us. To face an alliance of two of those cities, or even all three, as may occur if we move to bring Pentos utterly within the cloak of our power," he paused to sip at his glass, "suffice to say that we would not have to make too many mistakes before we faced utter disaster."

"However," said the keyholder who had asked whether Robert intended to conquer Myr, "if we could get our hands on some five or six thousand Westerosi horse and foot with a desire to cross the Narrow Sea to make war, then at the very least we would be able to solve each other's problems, and so become allies of convenience at the very least."

Eddard sipped at his glass to conceal his thoughts. In his wildest dreams he had not expected such success. "So our part in this would be to escort your officials into Pentos, see them installed, and stifle the slave trade?" he asked.

"In broad terms, yes," Bassanio said. "There may be some resistance from the Pentoshi, but we trust you will be able to overcome it."

"And in return," Eddard continued, "we would get passage across the Narrow Sea, a contract to see your men emplaced in Pentos, and a loan to cover our further expenses in the hunt for Rhaegar?"

"Passage for men and horses, naturally," replied a keyholder who had remained previously remained silent. "For the contract we are willing to pay each footman four of your copper stars per day, each horseman one silver stag and two copper stars likewise, each knight one silver moon and three silver stags ditto, and each senior officer two gold dragons and one silver moon. Days spent in combat to be paid at double the daily rate per man, with losses of horses or equipment in combat to be made good at our expense. Payment to be disbursed monthly, reckoned on the lunar calendar starting at the full moon. The contract to run for one year from the date of your company's arrival in Essos, with the option to renew it at the agreement of both parties. The terms of a loan can be discussed after your contract is completed."

Eddard had to clench his jaw to keep it from dropping. Part of him rebelled at selling his sword, as if he were some broken man without name, house, or lord, but it would solve most of the company's problems almost at a stroke. Their coffers would be replenished, they would gain a powerful patron on this side of the Narrow Sea, and most importantly, _they would be across_. Once the company was in Essos, half the battle would already be fought, and the greater half of Rhaegar's advantage over them would be nullified. Eddard had been fretting himself ill over the problem of maintaining the company and finding them transport; if someone had offered to arrange for the company to fly across the Narrow Sea, he would have been willing to hear them out_._

Of course, that didn't mean he had to accept the proffered solution without having a say in the terms. Five thousand swords gave you rights. "Payment due one month in advance," he said firmly. "If we are to turn sellsword, then it would behoove us to never fight for free." A round of chuckles was accompanied by a graceful gesture from the keyholder who had outlined the terms. "The length of contract to run six months from date of signing or until Pentos is conquered and secured, after which renewal shall be at the agreement of both parties. Otherwise, in the name of His Grace, I accept your terms as they have been given me."

Bassanio clapped his hands. "Done and done!" he cried. "Gentlemen, a toast!" Glasses were raised into the air. "To the contract we make here today, and to our friends of Westeros!"


	11. Chapter 11: The Parting of Brothers

Gerion hadn't liked it, but Robert had made their respective roles clear before they boarded ship. Gerion was there to act as guide and advisor, nothing more. Authority to speak in Robert's name and sign with his hand had been vested in Eddard. And so the contract was signed and sealed and three sennights later Eddard and Gerion sailed back to Westeros at the head of a veritable flotilla of galleys and caravels, enough to carry six thousand men and horses across the Narrow Sea.

When they arrived in King's Landing, they found that the company had grown to more than six and a half thousand men, thanks to late arrivals from the Reach, the arrival of the thousand Westermen who would be following Jaime Lannister over the Narrow Sea under the command of his uncle Tygett, and the advent of Victarion Greyjoy and nine hundred Ironborn reavers. Fortunately the Ironborn could transport themselves in their longships, a wave of newly-constructed ships had come off the slipways of King's Landing's shipyards and Brandon had persuaded Lord Manderly to place the better part of his fleet, ten carracks, at the company's service, in addition to other ships that frequented White Harbor. The ships would be crowded, but everyone could be carried across in one voyage.

If the company's encampment was all a-bustle with preparations to depart, with Robert striding about in fine fettle chaffing with the soldiery and roaring at longshore gang bosses in turn, the Red Keep was a ferment of frantic activity. In addition to the aftermath of Stannis' wedding to Cersei Lannister, which had taken place while Eddard was in Braavos, and the preparations for Robert's formal abdication and Stannis' coronation, which seemed to require a small army of maesters to invent the correct protocol, Jon Arryn and Mace Tyrell were politicking frantically. Eddard was absorbed in preparing the company to sail, but he overheard that Denys Arryn had been confirmed as Jon's heir and betrothed to Delena Florent, that Leyton Hightower's second son Garth and Arywn Oakheart's eldest son Arahad were to come to King's Landing as squires, that Mathis Rowan's newborn son had been betrothed to Mace Tyrell's infant daughter, and that Randyll Tarly had been named Captain of the Marches with a brief to command the forces of the marcher lords in the event of war with Dorne, which looked more likely with every day that passed without communication from Sunspear.

"The trouble is that we just don't _know_ what the Dornish will do," Jon Arryn said one day over luncheon, looking bone-weary. "The Reachlords _may_ be pacified for now with these betrothals and squirings, but Dorne may as well be a closed book to us. Doran Martell has yet to reply to any of our letters asking for a council between us and he, Oberyn Martell is riding from house to house across the Principality, and their border lords are not letting even trade caravans pass, much less emissaries." He had shaken his head. "If I fear anything, I fear what Oberyn Martell may do. I doubt that he will fight for the man who abandoned his sister, but who can say what is in the Red Viper's mind? Dornishmen are all mad and he is the maddest of them all."

At last all was prepared, Robert abdicated and Stannis was crowned in a ceremony that struck Eddard as ostentatiously magnificent, probably thanks to Tywin Lannister's purse, the ships were loaded save for the men, and the company was ready to sail on the morning tide, and Eddard found himself in the company of his brother in the godswood of the Red Keep, standing before the heart tree. Brandon was but newly risen from his sickbed, with his ribs and joints healed and his knees, according to the maesters, as mended as they were likely to be. Brandon was able to walk somewhat, with his legs braced and bound straight and the use of crutches, but his former grace and strength had been replaced with a hesitant jerkiness, like a newborn foal that hadn't quite learned the use of its legs. Eddard hadn't missed the looks that those Northmen who would be staying behind had shot at him over the course of the feast, especially when he hadn't joined in the dancing.

"Take care of Benjen for me?" he eventually said, breaking the companionable silence they had fallen into. "Make sure he doesn't make too great a fool of himself?"

"Aye, I will," Brandon said, shifting his crutches. "Until he goes to the Wall." At Eddard's glance he shrugged. "He wrote me, asking leave to take the black after I returned. I'm not inclined to refuse him; best to forestall any foolishness." He grinned lopsidedly. "He'll stay at Winterfell until my fish-wife gives me a son and a spare, though. Can't have the line die out; there must always be a Stark in Winterfell."

Eddard nodded. Every scion of their house absorbed that with their mother's milk. "How are you and Catelyn suiting each other?" he asked. His brother and good-sister had attended the coronation feast together, and seemed content with each other.

"Aerys's torturers broke my knees, Ned, not my cock," Brandon said with a reminiscent smile. "Took a bit of fumbling, but we suit each other just fine." He chuckled at Eddard's reddening ears. "Aren't you a bit old to be blushing like a maiden, Ned? I know you and Ashara Dayne passed the time together, and I surely hope you had at least a few conquests in the Vale."

Eddard glanced at his brother. "I did," he said shortly, his tone not inviting further comment. "But a gentleman does not boast of such, out of consideration for the ladies. In any case," he said over Brandon's bark of "HA!" "Robert was the one who cut a swathe through the women of the Eyrie and the Gates of the Moon. I had to confine myself to what he passed over, which wasn't much." Eddard loved Robert as another brother, but there were things even brothers shouldn't share. Secrets, horses, and wine, certainly, but not women.

Brandon turned a glance to Eddard. "Do you think he would have stopped?" he asked bluntly. "I heard Lyanna's complaints about him, Ned, don't think I didn't. If swearing off other women was the price of her marrying him, do you think he would have paid it?"

Eddard thought for a moment. "I believe so, yes," he said finally. "He was infatuated with her. But," he paused, gathering his thoughts, and then forged ahead, "Lyanna didn't see that. She simply saw the women he had had before her, and the daughter he had in the Vale; charming little girl, Mya by name. She didn't see that, to Robert's mind, they didn't matter. Once they had married, he wouldn't have looked twice at another woman."

Brandon nodded, then shrugged. "Fair enough. Not that it matters now, does it," he said bitterly. "She's dead, and all we can do is honor her memory and avenge her death." He turned hot eyes onto Eddard. "Kill him," he hissed, seizing Eddard's arm. "Kill him and all his name and ilk. I will give you what aid I can, but you must swing the sword. Send Rhaegar's heart and his balls to Winterfell in a box and I will die a happy man. For the sake of our blood, brother, _kill him_."

"I swear to you, my lord," Eddard said ardently, "there is nowhere under heaven where I will not pursue him. Not the farthest shore, not the most distant mountain, not the deepest pit of the deepest hell."

"Good, good," Brandon said, nodding, his hand still on Eddard's arm. "Gods all speed your travels and strengthen your arm, brother. I'll tell my sons of you."

"And I mine of you," Eddard said, returning Brandon's grip with one of his own, "if I ever have any."

The brothers embraced for the last time under the waning moon. 


	12. Chapter 12: The Landing of the Sunset

After an uneventful voyage, the company landed on the southern end of the Braavosian Coastlands, at a small town called Mytila, where they met with the contingent of Braavosi justiciars who had been dispatched to investigate the servile practices of Pentos. Their head was introduced as Tregano Baholis, late of the Sealord's household and vested with the power of command over the expedition, although he promised to defer to Robert's judgment in military matters. The town's chief magistrate was also present to pay his respects, which he did with almost exaggerated courtesy. Six and a half thousand troops suddenly landing on one's doorstep at short notice would terrify any civic authority, whether they were destined for his overlord's service or not.

After the ships had unloaded and the encampment had been established, the company had been assembled at the base of a small hill a mile from the camp. At the top stood the leadership of the company, Robert standing to the fore with a tall, heavily-built hedge knight from the Stormlands named Ser Dafyn Otley standing behind him clutching a pikestaff, the top third of which was wrapped in cloth. On either side of Robert stood his five captains; Eddard Stark, Brynden Tully, and Jaime Lannister on his right and Lyn Corbray and Victarion Greyjoy on his left, while the Braavosi delegation stood a little apart from the company officers. After Justiciar Baholis read out the proclamation declaring "a state of hostilities short of war" between Braavos and Pentos, whatever that meant, and accepting the company into the service of Braavos on behalf of the Sealord and his Council of Thirty, Robert stepped forward.

"The rules of this company are simple," he declared in a voice that boomed over the assembly, although heralds stationed through the crowd repeated his words anyway. "Firstly, you fight, you fight well, you fight to win, you fight to the death if you have to." There was a slightly surly muttering from the company; of course they would do so. That was their part of the bargain as men-at-arms.

"Just so we're clear," Robert continued. "Secondly, you will obey the lawful orders of your superior officers as you would obey your gods. You don't obey a lawful order, you deserve whatever happens to you. Clear?" The company murmured assent. That was also part of the soldier's bargain.

"Thirdly, the common folk of this country will not be abused in any way. We are here to give this country justice and good government, not to set ourselves up as tyrants. So treat the common folk as you would like your own families to be treated. As for the magisters and the slaveholders," Robert shrugged, "just remember what your mothers taught you about playing with your food." A wave of predatory chuckles swept through the company. When it got out what the company would be doing when it got to Pentos, the men's enthusiasm had sharpened; not only would they be doing a righteous deed, but they had the opportunity to get rich out of it. Everyone knew the stories of the wealth of the Essosi magisters.

"Fourthly, regarding the division of plunder," Robert proceeded. "Any coin you take is yours, but other valuables will be purchased at fair market value by the Iron Bank, in the person of Master Vito Nestoris here," he gestured to a slim man in the drab brown tunic of the Iron Bank's officials. "One-third of the purchase price is yours to spend as you like. One-third goes to the general coffers of the company, in order to help pay for all the food you bottomless pits shovel into your maws." There was a round of laughter. "And the remaining third will go to the Sealord, as his share of the spoils of this venture. Any man who defrauds the company to the value of one gold dragon answers to a court of officers. Clear?" The murmur of assent was muted, but it swept the company nonetheless. Plunder was one of the main draws of a soldier's life and any interference with it was usually fiercely contested, but the disapproval was muted by the fact that the company had received their first month's pay before sailing.

"Just a few more things, and then dismissed," Robert said. "Firstly, we have a name; the Sunset Company. Secondly, thanks to the ladies of the Red Keep, we have a banner. You may fly the banners of your houses as you like, but the company banner takes precedence over all others, even my own. Clear?" At the chorus of assent, Robert turned and nodded to Ser Dafyn, who bowed and swung the pikestaff in ever-widening circles to unfurl the new banner of the Sunset Company, six feet by six feet of silk displaying a severed dragon's head in red impaled on a black sword, backed by a half sunburst in yellow resting on the border between the two halves of the field, purple over green. There was a murmur of appreciation for the new banner, and some scattered applause. "We remain here all day tomorrow, and then march to Pentos the day after," Robert announced. "Any questions? No? Then DISMISSED!" As the Sunset Company broke up and drifted to their tents, save for those appointed to sentry duty, the captains met in Robert's tent with Justiciar Baholis and Master Nestoris.

"Our agents in Pentos inform us that they expect no resistance to be offered," Baholis said as he accepted a cup of wine from Robert's squire, a pimpled young man named Richard Horpe. "Indeed, they tell us that the Prince of the city plans to greet us himself, with his council, in the Great Square."

"Let's hope they do," Brynden Tully said, clutching his goblet in both his battered hands. "We may have the second-largest body of fighting men on this continent here with us, but we don't have any siege equipment. If the Pentoshi shut the gates on us, we'd look bloody silly stuck outside the walls."

"I doubt they would do any such thing," Lyn Corbray said lazily. "They know what happens to towns that get taken by storm." He waggled his eyebrows at Jaime Lannister. "Especially those taken by lions, eh, Kingslayer?"

Jaime narrowed his eyes, but his rejoinder was forestalled by Robert. "Corbray," he said warningly, "keep a civil tongue in your head or keep silent." He glowered about the room. "And that goes for the lot of you, and your officers. While you are in this company, you are not permitted to duel for any reason; there aren't enough of us here that we can afford to kill our own. Him that gives reason for a duel gets to duel me. Clear?" There were nods all around, if reluctantly from Lyn, Jaime, and Victarion. The right to defend one's honor with sword in hand was taken for granted by the Westerosi aristocracy, but Robert had a point.

"In any case," Baholis said, breaking the uncomfortable silence that had descended, "we should be able to march through the northern gate of Pentos within a sennight or two."

"Gods willing," Robert said, draining his goblet. "In aid of which, we have work to do. I'll have to lead the vanguard but Ned, I want you and your Northmen right behind me . . ."


	13. Chapter 13: To Fulfill a Contract

The company reached Pentos city two and a half sennights later and spent the first night camped outside the walls to prepare for the official entry into the city tomorrow and go over the plan one last time. When dawn broke, officers and rankers alike had been up for two hours already, making last-minute preparations and getting themselves in formation. At noon sharp a trumpet blared, the northern gate of Pentos opened, and the company stepped off to march into the city under a bright-blue sky only sparsely interrupted by clouds.

The first detachment through the gate was Robert's Stormlanders and Reachmen, five hundred mounted knights and men-at-arms and a thousand foot with Robert at their head riding a massive charger, his antlered helmet almost nine feet off the ground, Justiciar Baholis at his side. He was closely followed by Eddard's Northmen, five hundred riders and a thousand foot, with Eddard leading them on his courser, resplendent in the suit of plate armor that was a gift from his foster-father. Behind them were Lyn Corbray's Valemen, two hundred knights and mounted men-at-arms with six hundred foot augmented by Victarion Greyjoy's nine hundred Ironborn reavers, which immediately fell out and took control of the gate house, dismissing the city watchmen with polite but firm assurances that they would take responsibility for the gate. As Jaime Lannister's thousand Westermen, three hundred knights, squires, and men-at-arms followed by seven hundred foot, and Brynden Tully's two hundred and fifty knights and men-at-arms and seven hundred infantry filed in through the gate, the Valemen and the Ironborn fanned out along the circuit of the walls, evicting the city watchmen from the gates and ordering them closed. A few made to object, but hard words from knights and reavers backed by hands on sword hilts and axe hafts, and in the case of one argumentative sergeant a blow from Victarion's fist that sent him sprawling, persuaded them that discretion, in this case, outweighed valor and they went home, calling their families inside and barricading the doors.

As the Westerosi marched through the city they were met with scattered cheers and applause from the citizenry. A few, either greatly daring or else carried away by the spectacle of six and a half thousand armored men marching in close formation, threw flowers at the soldiers, but the vast majority simply stood and watched, their smiles edged with nervousness. Like townspeople the world over, the Pentoshi feared soldiers, especially foreign ones. Only the fact that they couldn't hope to withstand either siege or assault had driven them to accept their rulers opening the gates.

When the company reached the great market square in the center of the city, specially cleared for this occasion, they filed off from column to line, with Robert's contingent at the right of the line and Brynden's Riverlanders at the left, the cavalry a spear-length ahead of the infantry. Facing them on the far side of the square was the Prince of Pentos, accompanied by the magisters of his council and a slew of other highly-ranking merchants. As Justiciar Baholis dismounted the Prince stepped forward, his arms spread in welcome. "Greetings, my lords," he cried with every appearance of joviality. "Be welcome in Pentos, princess of cities!"

Tregano Baholis inclined his head. "We thank you for your welcome," he said formally. "My Lord Baratheon, if you please." Robert gestured curtly at a mounted herald behind him, who urged his horse forward a pace and produced a roll of parchment.

"Hear ye, hear ye," he cried in the loud-but-not-quite-shouting voice of a professional announcer. "Whereas it has come to the attention of His Excellency Ferrego Antaryon, Sealord of Braavos, and the Council of Thirty, that the practice of slavery continues in the city and country of Pentos, whereas the existence of slavery in the city and country of Pentos is in direct violation of the terms of the peace between Braavos and Pentos, and whereas His Excellency the Sealord and the Council of Thirty have no confidence in the ability of the Prince of Pentos or the Council of Magisters to enforce the laws against slavery, a state of emergency is declared in the city and country of Pentos, this by decree of His Excellency the Sealord in conclave with the Council of Thirty. All powers of government are hereby vested in the Honorable Justiciar Tregano Baholis, duly appointed representative of the Sealord and the Council."

The Prince of Pentos by now had stopped in his tracks, his staring eyes and gaping mouth making him look like someone had struck him between the eyes with a hammer, while behind him the magisters of his council and the merchants looked similarly flabbergasted. The herald plowed on. "By decree of Justiciar Baholis, the Council of Magisters and the City Watch of Pentos are dissolved. Full military and police powers are invested in Lord Robert Baratheon, Captain-General of the Sunset Company, and his officers. Gods save His Excellency the Sealord and the Council of Thirty!"

"My Lord Baratheon, fulfill your contract, if you please," Baholis said pleasantly, as if he had not just had announced the conquest of a nominally sovereign country.

"With pleasure, my lord," Robert growled, turning his horse to face the company. "Company!" he roared. "Arrest the Prince of Pentos, arrest his council, arrest every slaveholder in this city! Harm no slave, woman, or child under fifteen, but take every magister and merchant in this city and bring them here for judgment! Company, move!"

Eddard spurred his horse forward, the twenty riders of his household following him by a split second, and cantered towards the Prince and his council, followed by three hundred Northern horsemen. Behind him there was a sudden torrent of motion and noise but Eddard didn't stop; he knew his part of the plan. Forty paces away from the council and the cluster of other magisters and merchants he raised his fist in the air and roared "DIVIDE!" as he guided his horse around the left of the Pentoshi government and dignitaries, trailing riders like a tail, and circled around behind them at the canter, meeting Arnolf Karstark and his horsemen halfway around, while the Pentoshi milled around in the middle of the circle of riders, some spitting with fury, others gabbling in terror, a few outright fainting. One man, however, simply raised his chin and stared at Eddard from beneath hooded eyes, as if to say; _this display boots not. I will not be intimidated by flea-ridden barbarians._ Eddard met his gaze with an iron-eyed glare; _Perhaps,_ that glare acknowledged. _And yet here we are._

With the magisters and merchants penned in a ring of horseflesh and hard-faced riders with swords and spears ready to use, Eddard trotted back to Robert, who had taken the Prince of Pentos captive by the simple expedient of riding him down, kicking him in the face with a sabatoned foot, and then dismounting and planting a foot on the prone man's back. The fact that the Prince was still moving testified that Robert had restrained himself; such a blow with one of Robert's pillar-like legs behind it could quite easily have caved the man's face in as effectively as a blow from Robert's hammer. "The council is secured," Eddard said. "Is everyone about their tasks?"

"Like so many wheels turning," Robert said, pointing behind him with his thumb. The only men of the company remaining in the square were a hundred of Robert's Stormlanders and Eddard's three hundred horse; the rest had split off in a series of columns, each guided by a Braavosi justiciar to the part of the city they had been assigned to secure and clear of slaveholders. "Corbray sent a galloper saying that he had control of the gates right before this kicked off," Robert added, leaning forward onto the struggling Prince underneath his armored foot. "So long as none of them get to the harbor before the Blackfish's lads get there, we may bag the lot." Baholis, sitting his horse next to Robert, bared his teeth in a smile that was equal parts smug and carnivorous.

"I'll take a hundred of my riders and join the other Northmen," Eddard said, turning in the saddle and gesturing to his underofficers. "This needs to be kept under control."

"Aye," Robert agreed with a grin. "Can't have the lads burn the city down, can we? Don't think our employers would like that."

Eddard swallowed a grimace as he led his two hundred riders away. Robert could joke, but the stories Eddard had heard of the sack of King's Landing had been bad enough. He had no wish to see a sack in person.


	14. Chapter 14: The Captains

On the one hand, Victarion was enjoying himself immensely. To be sure the sack of Pentos had been pitiful, as sacks went; his men had been charged with holding the Sunrise Gate against all comers and so they had missed out on the loot and the women, neither of which had been very plentiful anyway by all accounts. That said, they had paid most of the iron price, thanks to a group of quick-thinking magisters who had grabbed their household guards and their families and tried to run for their estates. The eunuch guards in their spiked caps had taken some killing, but few men could rival the Ironborn when it came to handstrokes. It had almost made up for missing out on the plunder.

What had come next had been both enjoyable and disquieting.

Enjoyable, because while the company went out to subdue the countryside, Victarion and his Ironborn had been left in the city to assist Justiciar Baholis in dispensing justice.

A long table was set up in the great market square with seats for Baholis and his fellow justiciars. A quartet of scribes were seated at another table, while a lone chair was placed before the justiciars' table. This chair was occupied by the magisters and merchants that the Sunset Company had arrested when they had captured the city, who were held in the chair by a pair of Victarion's reavers while their papers were inspected and their 'servants' examined.

Victarion had been disgusted when the Pentoshi dodge around the Braavosi laws had been explained to him. If you wanted to keep slaves, then that was your business; although a true man would have the balls to pay the iron price for them instead of the gold price. But if you were forbidden from keeping slaves and couldn't throw off the prohibition with axe and sword, then you had no business trying to do so anyway. If you broke the laws and couldn't protect yourself against the consequences, then you deserved what you got.

Every 'servant' who was determined under examination to be a slave was immediately declared free and awarded compensation out of their former master's assets. In each case, the compensation awarded was the maximum amount permitted under Braavosi law.

The justiciars defined slavery . . . broadly.

"Your master gave money to your former master when you entered their service?" inquired one. "The payment received for your services did not cover the cost of your bed, board, and clothing?" asked another. "You were branded and wore a collar?" asked a third. "Sounds like slavery to me," said Baholis. Quill scratched on parchment. _Freed, maximum compensation awarded._

Nine in ten of the 'servants' examined were freed in this way. For the rest, the justiciars inspected their masters' records. In eight cases out of ten, this inspection provided proof of slavery, with the result of freedom and maximum compensation. Every 'servant' for whom there were inadequate records, or no records at all, was also freed at maximum compensation.

The justiciars' definition of adequate records was . . . rigorous.

"The ink is smudged on this one," announced one. "Hardly legible at all," proclaimed another. "Abominable calligraphy," said a third. "Clearly insufficient," agreed Baholis. Scratch, scratch. _Freed, maximum compensation awarded._

Some of the slaveholders tried to object. A blow from a reaver's fist and a snarled warning sufficed to silence them. _You'll show respect for the honored justiciars, crows eat your eyes. Next time you mouth off, you'll spit teeth. Time after that, you'll spit guts. Try us, you soft-handed, spineless bastard._

What had come next for the slaveholders had been less enjoyable but still compelling. Every man found guilty of possessing slaves was stripped of all their property and hauled aside to be confined in the dungeons below the Prince's Palace until such time as they could be transported to Braavos to spend the remainder of their lives as oarsmen in the republic's galleys. Any found guilty of trading slaves, either from abroad or within the borders of Pentos, was likewise stripped of property, but instead of confinement they were sentenced to death and beheaded on the spot; Victarion had taken his turn at the duty, at Dagmer's recommendation. It had kept the grumbling at becoming common executioners down, anyway; in fact, quite a few of the men seemed pleased that the Braavosi were, through them, exacting the iron price for the breaking of their laws, although it was agreed that Baholis should wield an axe himself on at least one or two of the slavers, for his own honor's sake. A few from each class of prisoner, those who had possessed or traded particularly large numbers of slaves, or who had abused them more than usual, were turned over to their victims, who invariably killed them.

That last part had kept the whole experience from being an unalloyed satisfaction. Victarion had been a boy when his father had declared the thralls of the Iron Islands free, but he remembered the outpouring of joy and gratitude from the thralls when it was announced. One old man, bent and withered from the mines, had all but kissed his father's boots when he was informed, weeping with happiness. Most of the slaves here had had a similar reaction. A few had seemed more bewildered than anything, and one or two had even looked frightened, but many had wept, or invoked the favor of the gods on the justiciars, or danced for joy. One stuck in Victarion's memory; a young woman, barely more than a girl and remarkably beautiful, who had prostrated herself before the justiciars and said something in a rolling, guttural language that had made Baholis turn red and cough in what sounded like embarrassment before waving her away. Victarion hadn't known what she had said, but he could guess.

Victarion knew that the thralls his family held in servitude had been well-treated, as such things went. Their food and clothing had been assured, and only the worst had been flogged, or sent into the deepest of the mines. Certainly, he had never heard of any suffering the abuses that some of the slaves here had recounted receiving at the hands of the justiciars.

Why, then, had they reacted in much the same way as these freed slaves?

Victarion shook his head irritably. Such thoughts were for maesters and maybe his brother Euron, who fancied himself a . . . what was the phrase, something Essosi . . . philosopher, that was it. Victarion's skill was with the axe, not with the mind.

But the similarities still made him lie awake at night.

XXX

Eddard knelt on the edge of the road north out of Pentos, surrounded by his lieutenants. "What's the next one?" he asked Ethan Glover, who had effectively become his squire since they landed in Essos.

Ethan spread out the map of the Northern Flatlands they had been provided with and traced their progress up the northward-bound road. "Something in Valyrian that I can't pronounce," he said sourly, "although as best I can make out it translates into Common as 'Fair Oaks'." He consulted the sheaf of notes that had come with the map. The Titan had many eyes, aided in no small measure by Owen Merryweather, who had offered to host a feast for the Sunset Company's officers at the first opportunity. "Apparently it's owned by some bugger named Illyrio Mopatis, trader in cheeses and spices, among other things."

"'Other things' meaning slaves, no doubt," rumbled the Greatjon, cracking his knuckles.

"Was he in the city when we took it?" asked Mark Ryswell.

"Apparently not, as he was in disfavor with the Prince," Ethan answered, scanning the notes. "It seems he was married to the Prince's cousin, but she died a few years ago and he recently remarried, to a pillow house worker of all things. Apparently the Prince took exception." There was a round of nods; none of the lords present would take it kindly if an in-law of theirs had dishonored the memory of their relation by marrying a whore. "In any case we have a writ for him. It appears his star was rising despite the Prince's enmity; he only bought Fair Oaks two years ago, 'hired' about two hundred 'bond servants' to work the fields about the manse."

There were low growls from the Northmen. In the past two sennights since marching out the northern gate, they had captured four great estates and half a dozen smaller ones and found slaves on each of them. These slaves hadn't been disguised as 'servants' either; they had been collared and branded, and many of them had borne the scars of the lash.

The owners of those estates had been absentee masters for the most part, preferring to live in the city and leave the running of their estates to an overseer and a small troop of guards. These men had either tried to resist against heavy horse and infantry and died for it, or they had been killed afterwards, either by the newly liberated slaves or by Northern soldiers outraged at the evil they had witnessed. On the first estate they had liberated, Eddard had come across an overseer who had been flogging a woman when the Northmen rode up; apparently her crime had been that she had broken a certain vase that the master had prized while she was cleaning the house.

Eddard had beheaded him on the spot, along with every other guard on the estate. On every estate afterwards, any overseer or guard who was taken alive after offering resistance was given the same treatment, either by Eddard himself or by any of the other Northmen. Mercy to the guilty was cruelty to the innocent, as the saying went.

"Same method as the others, I assume?" Maege Mormont asked, cocking an eyebrow at Eddard, who nodded.

"Aye," he said, putting his finger to the map. "Arnolf, take your horsemen and swing around the estate to the east. Mark, take your riders straight up the road and cut off any escape to the north. Greatjon, your foot will be responsible for securing the manse while Wendell's men clear the grounds. Don't bother announcing yourselves, we can do that later." In strictest law, they were required to announce themselves and summon the person or persons named in their writ of arrest to surrender before assailing them, but Justiciar Baholis had given them discretion to modify their methods if they deemed it necessary. Given such instructions, and their increasing revulsion at what they were witnessing, the Westerosi were reverting to the rules of war, where fair warning was not required. "If this Illyrio surrenders himself, we will send him back to Pentos for judgment. If he chooses to resist," Eddard shrugged, "then he should have known better. Let his deeds be upon his head." There were wolf-like smiles from his lieutenants. The one magister who had been on his estate when they captured it had been killed while resisting arrest; the fact that he had not been resisting very effectively was not remarked upon. If a man drew a sword, then he accepted responsibility for whatever happened to him afterwards.

Eddard stood and slapped dust off his poleyn. "Mount up, my lords."

XXX

"What in the _fuck_," Robert asked flatly, "is all this?"

A crowd of women was seething in front of a long low building with only one entrance and a few small windows. Some had fallen to their knees and were rocking back and forth, weeping. One had somehow gotten her hands on a knife and stabbed herself; two soldiers were frantically trying to stem the flow of blood from her torso. But the rest, almost fifty women, were trying to get at the quivering magister who had surrendered and was now being guarded by a squad of halberdiers who were fully occupied in holding the women at bay with the staves of their weapons. Gently holding them at bay, because almost all of the women were visibly pregnant.

"Apparently, my lord," said the squad leader, a grizzled veteran with sweeping mustachios, "the magister here ran the place as a school for pleasure slaves. Bought up young women slaves from the slaverunners and had them taught how to please a man." The sergeant's face hardened. "As for why they're pregnant, apparently the magisters paid more for slaves who were proven to be fertile. Less risk in natural increase than in shipping in new stock past the Braavosi, or so that one's bookkeeper told us when we put iron to him."

Robert controlled his gorge with difficulty. Gods knew he had a roving eye and a love for the ladies himself but this was . . . _cruel_. "What happens to their children?" he asked softly, remembering his daughter in the Vale, his little Mya.

"Sold on to other magisters, my lord, again according to the bookkeeper," said the sergeant. "Apparently it's the fashion here for noble children to have a slave companion their age." His face grew bleak. "In addition to which . . . the bookkeeper told us that they catered to _all_ tastes, my lord. Er, permission to get drunk tonight, my lord? I could have done without knowing a few of the things that yon bookkeeper told us."

Robert was too far gone in shock, dawning horror, and growing anger to do more than gesture assent to the sergeant as he walked his horse over to the magister and dismounted. _Children, for the love of the Gods._ "Why?" he asked the portly magister, his voice shaking.

The magister fell to his knees and clutched at Robert's greaves. "Mercy, lord," he babbled. "Mercy, I beg-"

Robert cut him off with a roundhouse slap with his gauntleted hand that opened a gash on the magister's cheekbone and knocked him sprawling. "I asked you a question, _slaver_!" he roared, snatching his hammer from its holster at his saddlebow. "_Why_, Hells take your soul?! Children, for the Gods' sakes!"

The magister touched his split cheek, looked at the blood on his fingers, and became very calm, the fear on his face replaced by a cold uncaringness. "Because it fulfilled a need and I was paid well for it," he said, his voice cool. "Why not? It's not like they were important or anything," he continued, picking himself up and dusting off his robes. "They were slaves to begin with, and mine to dispose of. Simply a matter of business."

Robert's war hammer was a mighty weapon; a seven-pound serrated square hammerhead backed by a pyramidal spike a foot long and topped by a spear-point the size of a man's hand counterbalanced at the other end of the three-foot haft by a round iron ball filled with three pounds of lead. With Robert's herculean arm propelling it, it could collapse a breastplate or cave in a helmet.

When Robert, blind with red fury, brought it up and around and swung it into the side of the magister's head, the magister's skull did not break as much as it shattered.

Robert came back to himself almost a full minute later, breathing heavily as he stood over the magister's pulped corpse like a bear over its kill with the whole courtyard staring at him in a mixture of awe and terror. Finally remembering who and where and what he was, he spat on the magister's corpse and turned to the mustachioed sergeant, absent-mindedly pulling a cloth out of his belt. "See to it that these women are cared for," he commanded as he began to clean the gore off his hammer. "We have some women with the baggage train; see that they lend what help they can give. No man is to touch them unless explicitly invited." He stared into the sergeant's eyes, round with shock. "Is that clear?"

The sergeant nodded so hard he almost gave himself whiplash.

XXX

_I have made a mistake,_ Jaime Lannister thought ruefully as his head twinged.

He had heard rumors for the past sennight that the magisters and landlords of the southern Flatlands had entered into negotiations with sellswords to defend their estates, but he had discounted the rumors. Most of the wealth available to the magisters was either coin deposited in the counting-houses and moneylender's vaults in Pentos city, and hence taken by the company and the Braavosi, or else it was tied up in their slaves. He had not thought that they would have the liquid wealth to hire mercenaries.

Apparently he had been mistaken.

He had been marching down the southward road out of Pentos for two sennights now, doing the same thing that Stark, Tully, Corbray, and Baratheon were doing in the rest of the Flatlands; executing writs of arrest for magisters who had been out of the city when the company had conquered it and liberating the slaves on the hinterland estates. In order to cover more ground faster, Jaime had split his cavalry into half a dozen flying columns, each comprising fifty knights and men-at-arms who ranged outward from the main body of infantry to strike at estates beyond their line of march. Chafing at the slow progress of the infantry, he had given Tygett command and taken control of a flying column, ranging two days ahead of the infantry.

Which had left him and his men isolated and exposed to a counterblow, such as the one that had fallen upon them that morning.

They had been trotting along the road when a body of a hundred cavalry burst out of a small copse two hundred yards off their right flank. Jaime had been about to wheel his men and countercharge when he had spotted a similarly-sized troop of cavalry appear on their left out of a fold in the earth. Throwing circumspection to the wind, he had chosen to charge the horsemen on the right anyway, hoping to break them quickly and then turn on the horsemen who were now behind them.

He had broken the cavalry in front of him alright, the Western knights tearing them off their horses with their long lances and hacking them from the saddle with sword and axe, but he had taken too long about it, and the horsemen behind them had caught his knights almost at a standstill. Only three things had saved them. Firstly, the intermingling of the Western knights with the Essosi horsemen had diluted the impact of the charge. Secondly, the plate armor of the knights made them all but impervious to single-handed sword-strokes and difficult to bring down even with axes and war hammers, while their opponents had been rather more lightly armored in mail-shirts or brigandines, and hence comparatively vulnerable. Third and lastly, when it came to handstrokes Gregor Clegane was the finest battler in the world. He had stuck to Jaime's left flank like he was tethered there and the two of them had rampaged around the battle like tavern bouncers, breaking apart knots of enemy horsemen and rallying the knights to them by ones and twos until the Essosi had broken.

Jaime hadn't wanted to take the Mountain with him, but Father had insisted. He would not, he had said in that terribly final tone of voice that Jaime had learned to respect at a young age, suffer his heir to come to harm through lack of protection, and so Jaime had accepted Clegane as his personal bodyguard. Father had then taken him aside and told him that if Clegane broke discipline, then he was to have no qualms about executing him on the spot. Having the meanest dog in the district at your beck and call was a fine thing, he had said, but a dog that wouldn't obey orders was good only as food for more obedient dogs. Jaime had agreed readily; he didn't know _exactly_ what Clegane had done to Princess Elia, but he didn't think it would be too hard to guess. The Mountain had a reputation.

Jaime bit back bile that wasn't just caused by the axe-blow that he had taken on the helmet. His first serious engagement as an independent commander and he had been defeated. By common sellswords, no less; a hastily interrogated prisoner had told them that they were men of the Company of the Rose. He had lost twenty men dead and five badly wounded, although for a mercy none of them had been too badly wounded to ride. Even so, the fact of his defeat burned at him like acid in his bowels.

At least he had carried himself well in the actual fighting, and had gotten at least some of his knights away safely. The thought of being captured himself was not to be borne.

XXX

Tygett Lannister scowled as Jaime told his tale of ambush and defeat, and the loss of half his force. _I told you it was a bad idea, but would you listen,_ he groused to himself as he turned to his gallopers. "Ride out to the flying columns," he said. "Order them to rejoin the main body at once. I also need one of you to go to each of the other divisions and inform them that we need them to reinforce us. These magisters seem to want to make a fight of it." As the gallopers conferred among themselves and cantered away, after glancing at Jaime who impatiently waved them on, he turned to his brother. "Gerion, we need to turn around and go back north to regroup with the rest of the company. I'll get the column turned around, but I need you to take our outriders and screen our retreat. We need to find out what we're facing here and we need to keep it off our backs while we get out of this mess."

Gerion nodded, his normally twinkling eyes deadly serious. "I shall arrange," he replied, turning his horse and cantering away, calling for the officers of the outriders.

Tygett turned to the two other senior officers among the Westermen. "Lyle, Addam, I need you to help me get this traveling fair turned around. I want our infantry formed up in a box around the baggage train, with our horse, when we get them back, formed up on each corner to watch for ambushers and escort the column. Lyle, you'll have the rear of the column, Addam, you'll have the front."

Addam Marbrand frowned. "We're retreating?" he asked incredulously.

"We just lost one in twelve of our heavy cavalry, we're marching through enemy territory with what's left of our heavy cavalry scattered to the winds, and our nearest reinforcement is two and a half sennights away," Tygett said dourly. "You bet your ass we're retreating; at least until we consolidate our forces, reunite with the rest of the company, and get a better idea of what we're facing."

Lyle Crakehall glanced at Jaime, who nodded affirmation, and nodded himself. "I can buy that," he rumbled. "I'll keep the rear of the column together, Ser Tygett, if I have to hold them together with my bare hands."

"Good, because you might need to," Tygett replied, turning to back to Addam. "Addam, if you run into opposition ahead of you, I'll need you to plow through it. Don't go so fast that you leave us behind, but don't let anyone or anything stop you."

Addam nodded, his face turning serious. "I will, Ser," he said simply.

"Then go on, get to it," Tygett said, waving the young knights away and turning in his saddle to glare southward. His fool nephew had gotten soundly thrashed and escaped death or capture by the skin of his teeth, but with any luck, they could keep the rest of the division from suffering disaster, at least until they were reinforced. _And when we come south again,_ he vowed to himself, _we'll see how well these magisters make war against an army._


	15. Chapter 15: The Breaking of Chains

Tygett sighed in relief as the Rivermen joined him at their camp outside the walls of Pentos. He had managed to keep the Westermen together despite harrying raids by mercenary horsemen and established an entrenched camp just outside the walls of Pentos, but the arrival of the Rivermen doubled his numbers and gave him the ability to do more than simply defend himself if he was attacked in force. The fact that Victarion Greyjoy had marched half his men out from the city to join them had been even better; the ballads emphasized the prowess and chivalry of the knights, but Tygett knew that actual battles turned on good infantry. The ironborn might not have the discipline to stand against a charge of knights, but he couldn't ask for a better force of cutthroats to throw into a melee.

Ser Brynden Tully rode up to him and clanked his gauntleted fist against Tygett's. "Not bad," he said, sounding genuinely admiring. "Any idea what you're facing?"

"The Company of the Rose, at least," Tygett answered, "along with about two thousand infantry. Apparently the southern magisters decided to try and fight for their lands."

Gerion rode up, catching the last sentence as he reined in. "I don't think their foot are anything to worry about," he said, taking off his helmet and shaking out his hair. "From what little the outriders saw of them, they seemed to be slaves carrying hand weapons for the most part, along with some household retainers. I doubt they're wielding anything more than pitchforks and billhooks, at least for the slaves."

Brynden waggled his head. "Even so, I'd rather wait until further reinforcements arrived before we tried attacking them. Robert's only a day behind me, and Eddard will be here in five or six days. After that, I'll take our chances against any army in this quarter of Essos."

"We can't let them pen us up for too long," Gerion observed. "The men won't stand for it, especially with reinforcements. The Ironborn are all but demanding that we march on the enemy."

"They can wait two days, at least," Brynden replied. "That'll give us a thousand heavy horse and just under two and a half thousand foot. I'd prefer to have Ned's lot with us, but I'll still take those odds." He paused. "How's Ser Jaime doing?"

Tygett shrugged. "He'll keep," he said. "Took a whack to the head, but it didn't knock all his brains out and may have knocked some sense back into him. Although I pity whatever sellsword gets in his way when the battle starts." He stroked his beard. "So today and tomorrow to hold them and let Robert arrive, and the day after to fight them. I've got some ideas already, Ser Brynden, but first I want you to take a look at the ground around here . . ."

XXX

Tomar of Norvos, Captain of the Company of the Rose, stormed into his tent with a thunderous expression on his weathered face and anger smoking off his blocky frame. "Out," he snapped at his body slave and his concubines, and as they scuttled out he seized the table and flipped it over with a roar of disgusted rage.

_Still_ his employers had yet to find their balls! Two days now they had camped before the walls of Pentos, watching reinforcements flood into the Andal camp, and all the magisters wanted to talk about was 'exploring channels' and 'coming to mutually beneficial solutions.' Tomar snorted in disgust as he snatched up a bottle of Tyroshi brandy and knocked the top off of it with his dagger. If they had had the least hope of succeeding he would have wished them luck, but did the silly buggers seriously think they could outbid the _Iron Bank?_

And even if they could have, he thought as he tipped the bottle back and let the brandy burn down his throat, they would have had to find a receptive ear. It was well known that the Andals hated slavery like poison, the Gods knew why, and apparently this lot had been recruited specifically to stamp out slavery in Pentos. The Pentoshi clearly didn't have a prayer of retrieving the situation, not against six and a half thousand men with only his seven hundred and thirty-eight horse, their sons and retainers dressed up as cavalry, and their slaves.

Tomar spat. That was the other thing; did these fat idiots really think that their slaves would fight and die for them? Even if the slaves loved their masters so much, if they were men with any fighting spirit they wouldn't be slaves to begin with. If he had known that the magisters were so hard up for solutions, he would have laughed in their faces and extended his services to the Braavosi.

But he hadn't known, and his word, publically given, could not be retracted. A sellsword who broke his contract unprovoked was a sellsword who couldn't be trusted, and a sellsword who couldn't be trusted was a sellsword that no one would hire.

He rose from where he had sat on his bed and stalked out of his tent. The day was wasted anyway; he might as well find someone to drink with.

XXX

Jaime Lannister was not usually given to strong emotion. He tended more towards a quiet stoicism, leavened by a gift for sarcasm that could almost pass for humor, if you didn't examine it too closely. This inclination had only been strengthened by his time in the Kingsguard; there were things he had heard, standing guard on the royal apartments, that didn't bear thinking about. The only thing to do with those memories was to put them away in a back corner of your mind and not bring them out again.

So the anger that coursed through his veins at the sight of the sellsword banners fluttering in the morning breeze burned like wildfire. The authors of his disgrace were on the field and, by special dispensation of the gods, were opposite his knights. Jaime clenched his jaw to beat back the fury that threatened to cloud his mind. _Nerve cold-blue, blade blood-red_, his teachers had all taught him, and the maxim had served him well. Besides, he intended to enjoy his revenge.

He was two horse-lengths ahead of the line of his knights, riding alone but for Gregor Clegane, who had outright refused to leave his side and was sitting a half-length behind him on his left. He no longer actively wanted to die, but the shame of his defeat still lurked in his mind. He could see the half-pitying gazes his knights were casting at his back even now, regarding the fool who had lost his first proper battle and gotten half his men killed, and felt them like knives in his back.

He intended to conquer, and so expunge that shame, or die and be rid of it.

At long last, the horn sounded from the center, where Baratheon had his standard. Jaime closed his visor with the edge of his shield and raised his lance to signal the advance.

XXX

On the left of the formation, Brynden Tully sent a quick prayer to the Warrior to guide Jaime's charge. He had every confidence that Jaime and his knights could break the sellswords, but the gods laughed at the plans of men.

The Blackfish went over the plan again in his mind. On the right, Jaime and his knights would engage the Company of the Rose and destroy or at least entangle them, while Brynden Tully's Rivermen did the same with the company of horsemen on the left flank; sons and retainers of the Pentoshi magnates, according to their intelligence. In the meantime, Robert's Stormlanders and Reachmen, with Victarion's Ironborn, would hold in the center and wait to see what the slaves would do. A deserter last night had brought them tales of widespread disaffection in the ranks of the armed slaves and a general unwillingness to die for their masters.

Brynden only hoped that disaffection would yield something. He had little stomach for killing the people he was supposed to be liberating. He raised his own lance, and the cavalry of the Riverlands spurred their horses forward.

XXX

Tomar spat into the dust beside his warhorse. The enemy was already advancing and the magisters had only just gotten their armed slaves into ranks. The so-called 'company' of magisters' sons and retainers was still mounting up and forming ranks, for gods' sakes.

Now the Andals' right flank was advancing and the only force Tomar had to counter it was his own company. Tomar hated going head to head like this, but there was nothing else for it. Any hope of victory depended on keeping the enemy horse away from the infantry. Against other infantry, they might, _might,_ serve well enough, especially once fear made them savage. But if the horsemen ever got into them, they would be meat on the butcher's block.

It was an article of faith among sellswords, and most other soldiers, that heavy cavalry with proper leadership would defeat an equivalent number of infantry any day of the week, given the opportunity to charge home. It was why so many sellsword companies were mostly or even exclusively cavalry.

Tomar turned to his men, most of whom he had known for years. "Follow me, the Rose!" he roared, drawing his sword and levelling it at the advancing knights. "Hell or plunder!"

"Hell or plunder!" the Company of the Rose chorused back at him as they spurred their horses forward and drew their swords.

XXX

The Company of the Rose was an old company. In almost three centuries, they had fought everything that the continent of Essos could throw at them, from Dothraki to Unsullied. But they had not faced Andal knights in a massed charge.

This was not strictly their fault. The prerequisite conditions for the development of mounted knights (open country, good horses, and a military aristocracy) did not exist in Essos. To be sure, Essos had open country and good horses in plenty, but the aristocrats of Essos, in large part, were merchants or landlords rather than warriors. Fighting was work for mercenaries or slaves, not noblemen. In Braavos, where what the aristocracy were of a more martial bent, social pressure militated against their fighting as a separate corps of armored cavalry. In Braavos, noblemen served either as marines on the republic's galleys, or as officers in the pike-wielding regiments of the city's army.

Moreover, Westeros had only rarely intervened in Essos. Westerosi came to Essos all the time, but they were traders, sellswords, or diplomats, and they rarely came in numbers. United Westeros had only fought against the denizens of Essos' western littoral twice. In the Dance of Dragons, the fighting had all taken place at sea, and in the War of the Ninepenny Kings most of the fighting had taken place either on the Stepstones against pirates, or in the Disputed Lands against sellswords. The Essosi city-states had decided they had nothing to learn from such bagatelles.

To be fair, there were Andal-style knights in Essos, in the form of the Golden Company, but they were all but unique, and often enough the Golden Company's reputation alone was able to decide a conflict. It had been years since the Golden Company's knights were called upon to charge the enemy in massed formation.

So when the Sunset Company imported twelve hundred knights and five hundred Northern heavy horse (distinguished from knights only in their lack of the title Ser), it imported a mode of fighting never properly introduced to Essos, and consequently devastating against those who faced it for the first time.

When the Company of the Rose rode onto the field of Pentos, they were equipped as heavy cavalrymen after the Essosi fashion, wearing half-armor and wielding hand weapons atop medium-weight horses. Against them, the Western knights were wearing full plate, for the most part, save a few poorer men-at-arms who wore half-plate over mail, and wielded lances in addition to swords and other hand weapons, while their horses were on the heavy end of the medium-weight spectrum. The relatively light equipment of the Essosi made them quicker off the mark and more maneuverable, as well as more sustainable over a long campaign of hard marching.

In a charge, though, they were far outclassed.

Captain Tomar did not live long enough to learn this lesson, however; Jaime Lannister's lance speared through his brigandine and tore him out of the saddle in a spray of blood. He was dead before he hit the ground. Bare seconds later, the same thing happened to nine in ten of the Company of the Rose's front rank and almost all of their officers, as the Western knights hit them. Most cavalry forces would have broken instantly, but the men of the Company of the Rose were hardened veterans for the most part, and even their newest recruits fought hard; cowards did not take up the life of a sellsword.

Courage, however, is a poor substitute for armor, and over the next twenty minutes, the Company of the Rose was destroyed. Of seven hundred and thirty-eight men, only one hundred and eighty-two escaped the melee, where the knights of the Westerlands were cutting their comrades to pieces. Of those, only ninety-seven would be listed as 'present, fit for duty' at the next muster they could undertake after the battle. The Company of the Rose had known defeats, but this was their worst.

On their other flank, the Pentoshi cavalry were being even more thoroughly trounced. The magnate's sons and retainers that made up that corps were largely untested at any sort of martial endeavor beyond dueling or keeping slaves at their work, and although a few of them were splendidly armored, the vast majority of them wore only gambesons or shirts of ring-mail. To pit them against the Riverlander knights and men-at-arms, the vast majority of whom were veterans hand-chosen by no less an authority than the Blackfish, was akin to pitting lap-dogs against mastiffs, and with much the same results.

While the Company of the Rose and the Pentoshi cavalry were being demolished, the first embers of the Slave Wars were bursting into flame behind them.

XXX

Hastron Ordello, head of the League of Magisters, frowned sourly as the Company of the Rose rode out to meet the Andals. He had _told_ Tomar not to bring on a general engagement until he was signaled to do so, but here they were. _See if we pay him his victory bonus after this insubordination,_ Ordello thought savagely as he gestured at his trumpeter. "Sound the advance," he said casually, sipping at his morning hippocras.

The trumpeter swung up his instrument and belted out the two rising notes that signaled the army to advance and crush the enemies of Pentos. Officers drew their swords and roared the order to advance.

Not one bond servant in the ranks of the infantry moved.

Ordello could not believe his eyes. For a long moment he blinked quizzically at the stationary ranks of bond servants before he gestured to his trumpeter again. "Sound the advance," he repeated, "as loud as you can." Again the trumpet blared, again the officers roared.

Again the bond servants ignored them.

_Ignored them!_

Ordello shot to his feet, throwing his goblet away in sudden anger. "Gods below!" he shouted. "Is it mutiny?! I'll have them at the whipping post so long the ants will be able to crawl up their hair to get at their eyes!" He strode over to his horse and hoisted himself into the saddle; in his younger days he could have vaulted from ground to saddle, but these days he was too broad and his arms no longer had the necessary strength. The hint of personal decline did nothing to help his spleen. Snapping, "Follow me!" at the score of young gentlemen whom he had made his personal guard, he trotted out to the nearest company. By the time they arrived he was in a surpassing rage.

"Are you deaf?!" he roared as he reached the company. "Advance, damn you!"

The bond servants cast sullen glances at him, but they didn't move.

"By the gods!" Ordello screamed, losing his temper entirely. "You will advance or I will have every mother's son of you flogged until you can no longer stand! Advance!"

A bond servant in the front rank looked up at him and said, quite calmly, "No."

Ordello gaped at him, unsure whether he could trust his senses. First bond servants refusing orders, and now saying no to their masters?! It was appalling, unthinkable. "What?" he croaked, his voice throttled by shock and rage.

"No," said the bond servant, a tall fellow with the heavy muscles of a laborer or a farm hand whose Dothraki blood was as evident in his copper skin and black hair as it was in his thick accent. "We not fight."

Ordello gaped at him for another moment, and then, seized by a paroxysm of fury, brought up his riding crop and slashed it down at the bond servant's head.

The bond servant caught it, suddenly glaring at Ordello. "I Akhollo, son of Jhazamo, blood of Khal Hannarbo's blood," he said, his voice suddenly fierce. "I no longer be whipped like slave."

Ordello gobbled incoherently. This was madness, the end of civilization. "Kill him!" he finally shrieked, releasing the crop to point at the bond servant who had dared to refuse his master's commands. The affront to nature that could not be allowed to stand. "Kill him! Kill them all!"

The bond servant threw his head back and gave voice to a yipping howl that echoed over the ranks of the bond servants. "Free or dead!" he bellowed, lunging forward with the crude spear he had been given and burying it in Ordello's gut.

The last thing Ordello heard before he blacked out from the pain was two thousand bond servants resounding the call to insurrection.


	16. Chapter 16: Onto the Glittering Stairs

"Fighting battles without me, are you?" Eddard said mock-chidingly as he accepted a goblet from Robert's squire; it had been a dusty ride and Robert's tent wasn't exactly cool, although it kept the sun off at least. "If I knew you were that desperate for a challenge, Robert, I'd have offered to spar with you."

"Only if you let me use my hammer, Ned," Robert said laughingly. "I like to win sometimes." With his hammer in his hand, Robert could beat the world, but when it came to swords, Eddard was his better. Eddard wasn't remotely the artist with the sword that Ser Arthur Dayne was, or Ser Barristan Selmy, but he was certainly a good _craftsman_ with a sword, being stubborn, canny, and vigorous. "Not that it was much of a challenge anyway," Robert continued. "Once their cavalry had been broken and their slaves revolted, it was more a matter of chasing down the survivors than anything. Those that the slaves left alive, that is, which wasn't many."

Eddard nodded. He had seen the heads mounted on pikes along the circuit of the walls. "How did Justiciar Baholis react to the slaves revolting?" he asked.

"Oh, he was quite pleased," Robert said, taking a swig from his goblet. "Surprised, but pleased. He's already offered them Braavosi citizenship, if they'll accept Braavosi law."

Eddard blinked. Braavos was one of the most cosmopolitan nations on earth, but to receive Braavosi citizenship, one had to be born on Braavosi lands, or a Braavosi ship, to parents who were themselves citizens. For foreigners to be offered citizenship was a rare thing, and usually only given as a reward for heroic service. "How many of them have accepted?" he inquired. He imagined that many of them had; the chance to go from a slave to a free citizen of a powerful nation would be tempting for anyone.

"About one in five," Robert said. "The rest want to come with us."

Eddard looked down at his goblet. "This must be stronger than what I'm used to," he said. "I could have sworn that you said that four in every five of the slaves we're talking about want to come with us."

"I did, because they do," Robert replied. "And more besides. A lot of the slaves we've liberated, or those of fighting age, have decided to follow us. I tried telling one fellow that it was the Braavosi who were freeing the slaves, not us, and the cheeky bugger _laughed_ at me. He said it wasn't any Braavosi that cut the collar off his throat or killed his master, but an Andal. He said he wouldn't swear oath to any man but the ones who freed him and his fellows."

"How many slaves are we talking about here?" Eddard asked slowly.

"Four thousand give or take. So far, anyway," Robert said. "Most of them men between the ages of fifteen and thirty. They've already started asking for weapons."

Eddard sat back in his chair, mind spinning. _Four thousand . . ._ "We can't take them," he said finally. "Not even half of them. What are we going to feed them?"

"By great good fortune, we got here just as the harvest was coming ripe," Robert said with a twinkle in his eye. "Baholis is putting contingents together to get the harvest in and between our pay, our victory bonus, and the company's share of the loot, we should be able to buy up a fair portion of it. Enough to tide us over until we get to Myr, anyway."

Eddard shook his head. "We still can't take them," he persisted. "We can't arm them, not with weapons worth the name."

Robert shrugged. "They can cook and carry for us, anyway," he said. "And the more promising can be given weapons from the Myrmen we kill."

Eddard slumped forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "And how many of them will fight for our cause?" he asked. "We're here to avenge Lyanna, not destroy slavery in all of Essos."

"The one may lead to the other, if what Baholis tells me of the Three Daughters is true," Robert replied. "Rhaegar is King of Myr in all but name, and in Myr there are three slaves for every freeborn. When those slaves hear that the army that freed the slaves of Pentos is coming their way, what do you think they'll do? Stay in the fields with their eyes on the ground, when _freedom_ is coming their way?" Robert leaned forward, his eyes intent. "Ned, you know there is no going back for the two of us. Even if we kill Rhaegar and Viserys tomorrow, we will never return to Westeros as living men. For better or worse, our future lies here, in these lands. And whether we like it or not, we are the men who destroyed slavery in Pentos. It wasn't the Braavosi who broke the chains off these slaves, but us, and the men we command."

Robert reached out and grabbed Eddard's knee. "Ned, Ned, I can feel the wind turning around us. When we march south, we will destroy slavery in Myr. We won't be able to do otherwise; even if we left the slaveholders alone the slaves would flock to our banner in droves. And it won't stop at Myr either." Robert's eyes were feverish now. "Tyrosh and Lys will fight us, sure as death, so we'll have to fight them back. And in doing so, we'll destroy slavery in those cities as well. Volantis won't stomach having us as a neighbor; they'll fight us too, depend on it. There are five slaves for every freeborn in Volantis; do you think they'll stand idle when _we_ are riding through the countryside and beating on the gates of the city?" Robert shook his head. "We have shattered the illusion that slavery is the proper order of things, with our victory here. So long as we draw breath, we will be a living message to every slave that freedom is possible, if only you fight for it. We cannot be anything else."

Eddard stared. He hadn't seen his foster-brother so transported since the tourney at Harrenhal, when Robert had sung Lyanna's praises to him over a goblet of Arbor Gold. "Won't the masters fight back?" he asked hesitantly. "I imagine they've put down slave rebellions before."

"Not when the slaves were backed up by a foreign army," Robert said with a carnivorous twinkle in his eye. "Much less an army like ours. Ned, the Blackfish's knights went through the Pentoshi cavalry like an axe through a pastry. If the Essosi are fool enough to fight us in open battle, I'll stand surety that we'll hand them their heads every time."

Eddard looked down into his goblet, his thoughts a-whirl. _We could do it,_ he thought to himself. _Gods old and new witness, we could do it._ There wasn't a force between here and Slaver's Bay that could match them in open battle save for the Golden Company. If the Three Daughters were foolish enough to fight them, the Sunset Company would bowl them over. If they lost men, either to battle, disease, or simply because they wanted to return to Westeros, then the freed slaves would fill the gaps and then some, if the numbers of their current recruits were any indication; they weren't soldiers, but a few months under Ser Brynden's instruction would remedy that. And not all of Westeros' hedge knights and second sons had sailed with them. For the promise of land and titles, they would _flood_ across the Narrow Sea, as they wouldn't for Lyanna's sake.

The thought of his sister stilled his swirling mind and brought clarity back to his thoughts. He looked back up at his foster-brother. "First we kill Rhaegar," he said. "If Viserys runs, he can keep until he's of a man's years, but Rhaegar must die before we forge this kingdom of broken chains. I swore an oath."

Robert smiled ferociously. "As have I," he said intently. "But when that oath is fulfilled, Rhaegar will leave a crown in the dirt. I mean to pick it up."

Eddard smiled back. "You've been thinking about this for a while, haven't you?" he asked in playful accusation.

"Ever since we finished cleaning up from that battle and I had a word with Baholis and the other captains about our next moves," Robert admitted. "Are you in, Ned?"

"Of course I am," Eddard replied matter-of-factly. "You'll need someone to do the difficult thinking for you." He paused. "Didn't you tell me once that you were glad to give Stannis the crown?" he asked. He distinctly remembered Robert telling him on the voyage over that he had hated every minute that he had been forced to act a king.

Robert shrugged. "Odds are we'll be spending the rest of our lives at war, Ned," he observed. "If not against Lys and Tyrosh, then against Volantis or the Dothraki. I might wear a crown, but I won't be sitting on a throne and going to fat."

Eddard smiled. "Let's get you your new throne first, before you decide whether to spurn it or not," he answered. "In the meantime, let's call in the others, get the maps out, and put a plan together."

_"__And so the brothers swore, and their oath set their feet on the glittering stairs of empire, which they scaled to dizzying heights, until the fame and dread of their names was spread across the world and a new world was born in blood and fire."_

\- _Breakers of Chains_ by Howard Roberts, published 1939 AC


	17. Chapter 17: The Old Country

**Meanwhile, in Westeros . . .**

There were times when Jon Arryn dearly wished he could allow himself to get drunk.

He had plotted and schemed for more than two decades, praying for the opportunity to overthrow the Targaryens. The dragonkings had been a blight upon Westeros, their predilection for the black arts and their unholy preference for mating brother with sister bringing the judgment of the gods upon the Kingdoms. The revolt of the Faith Militant, the Dance of Dragons, the Blackfyre Rebellions, all directly stemmed from the misrule of the Tagaryens. Not even the few kings they had produced who had been worth the name could balance the scales against civil war.

At last, he had achieved his goal. After two decades of careful planning, the Targaryens were overthrown and those few who remained expelled from Westeros. He had lost family and dear friends in the doing of it, but when set against the victory he had achieved it would be churlish to count the cost. The Targaryens were deposed, a king of proper Westerosi lineage sat the throne of united Westeros, and at long last he could be about the business of making Westeros a _nation_, and not merely a patchwork of quarreling kingdoms.

And then the gods had seen fit to snatch the prize almost entirely out of his hands. Robert, that impetuous, selfish, pig-headed, brilliant young man, had given up the Iron Throne for the sake of his own private quarrel with Rhaegar. And Eddard, who Jon had depended on to keep Robert on a solid foundation, had gone with him. If pressed, he would admit that there was justice in their cause, but he had thought that he had taught Robert better; that a lord's duty, much less a king's, was to set aside his own desires and hatreds for the sake of his people's good.

Eddard at least had seemed to have taken his lessons in that regard to heart. It was Jon's own folly for forgetting the importance that the Northmen placed on exacting revenge for an injury.

Now Robert and Eddard were gone over-sea and Jon was left to try and salvage the Seven Kingdoms from its second change of kings in less than a year. Fortunately, he had promising material to work with. Stannis was dutiful, conscientious, and had a strong sense of justice that Jon found both refreshing and potentially useful. Quite a few kings could, with some justice, be called 'the Great', but their accomplishments tended to be ephemeral, with notable exceptions. Those kings who earned the sobriquet 'the Lawgiver', on the other hand . . .

The problem was that Stannis was about as tactfully subtle as a wild boar. When he had learned just how many of the Crownland and Narrow Sea lords had gone into exile with the Targaryen, he had wasted no time in declaring their whole houses attainted and their lands forfeit to the Crown. Rosby, Duskendale, Sharp Point, Brownhollow, Sweetpoint Sound, Claw Isle, Driftmark, every hold occupied by Targaryen loyalists who had followed the dragons into exile had been taken over by royal troops and given to men who had served in the Rebellion; mostly Stormlanders, Rivermen, and Valemen, but also some Westermen and even a few Northmen. What was more, these men were not made lords in their own right, but instead held the title of Royal Castellan and pledged their allegiance directly to the Iron Throne. Only a few of the noble houses of the Crownlands, those like Massey, Buckwell, and Gaunt who had made their peace with the result of the Rebellion and pledged allegiance to the new dynasty, had kept their lands and their relative autonomy. Jon approved of the theory, but the actual doing of it left Stannis vulnerable to accusations of being even more of a tyrant than Aerys was. Even after Duskendale, Aerys had not enacted such sweeping attainders and confiscations.

The Royal Order of the Storm was another innovation that Jon had mixed feelings about. The Kingsguard could be rightfully said to be defunct, as none of them remained save those in Rhaegar's service. And even if any had taken service with the new dynasty, their lack of action to prevent the crimes of the Mad King or of the Kidnapper Prince had thoroughly sullied the Whitecloaks' honor; all the authorities on chivalry, when asked for their opinion, had agreed that a knight who assisted his lord in the commission of a crime brought shame upon himself and forfeited the right to call himself a knight, although they also all agreed that such a knight could not himself be charged with a crime if all they did was obey the orders of their liege-lord. Jon did approve of the way that Stannis had stated that they would number forty-nine; to be sure it would dilute the honor of each individual position within the Order, but the increase in numbers would allow the Order to more effectively guard the royal family and the significance of the number, seven times seven, resonated with the Faithful. Of a certainty the High Septon had been very willing to bless the banner of the Order and witness the oath of its knights, as they were found and inducted. This was proving to take some time as Stannis insisted that his 'Stormguard', as they swiftly became known, be selected as much for their commitment to the laws of the Realm as for their skill at arms; so far only twenty-one knights had been selected, while three times as many had been turned away by either Stannis or Lord Commander Penrose, some with harsh words.

Thankfully, the rest of Stannis' councilors were competent enough, for the most part. Damon Lannister was a weak reed, but the Crown's finances were recovering well under his oversight. Roose Bolton had reformed the City Watch with singular efficiency; if the smallfolk whispered that the Master of Laws was a sorcerer tainted with the blood of the White Walkers, at least it seemed to help keep crime down. Paxter Redwyne was solid if not inspired, and the Royal Fleet was back up to twenty galleys already, with another thirty set to be completed within the next three months. The only real fly in the ointment was Jon's distant cousin Gerold, from the Gulltown branch of the family. Not that Gerold was outright incompetent, Jon wouldn't have nominated him if he had been, but he tended to complacency. For one thing, Gerold was almost blasé about how little news they had from Dorne.

Jon, on the other hand, was positively fearful of the silence from Dorne. They had only learned two things out of Dorne in the past month. Firstly, that Oberyn Martell had left the desert and was now visiting the borderer houses in the Red Mountains. Secondly, and arrived just this morning by fast ship, that Prince Doran had demanded that the men who killed his sister and her children be handed over to him for execution.

Jon sighed wearily. They could not expect a reply from Tywin Lannister for the next sennight or two, but Damon had laughed at the demand; not for all the spices in the east, he had declared, would his cousin give up his pet killers. In any case, Gregor the Mountain, who was the prime suspect, had gone to Essos as the sworn shield of young Jaime and Jon didn't need to be told that Tywin would eat his own fingers before he would deprive his son and heir of such a protector. The fact that Oberyn would almost certainly take such a refusal as cause for war, even if Doran didn't, was not remarked upon either by Damon or by Gerold.

Stannis, however, had seen the possible danger when Jon had brought it up after the council meeting, and word had been sent to the marcher lords, both of the Stormlands and the Reach, to be on their guard against incursions from Dorne. Jon knew that it was probably a case of hauling wine to the Arbor to tell the marcher lords to be wary of Dorne, but it had to be done nonetheless; even if nothing came of it, it would demonstrate that the Iron Throne was mindful of the dangers its subjects might face.

Jon put the matter from his mind with an effort of will. Sufficient unto the day was the evil thereof, as his confessor insisted on reminding him; he had done all he reasonably could to guard against Dorne, and there were other problems that demanded his time, even if they did not command so much of his fear. At least Stannis had wasted no time in getting Cersei pregnant.

XXX

People did not appreciate hard work; this was something Mace Tyrell had learned time and again over his life.

He was taking advantage of the warm and clear day to walk the gardens, alone for once, save for his faithful bodyguards, but he often forgot their presence. As was fitting for men of their trade; the best bodyguard was one who knew how to make themselves invisible until they were required.

He made a point to thank the men who tended the bounty that gave Highgarden its name. No castle in all of Westeros was more beautiful, more nurturing to the soul. Not only did the gardens give beauty to what would otherwise be sterile stone, but nestled amongst the flowers were vegetables and herbs that would in time grace the castle's banquet tables. The servants claimed it was Garth Greenhand himself who had planned the layout of the gardens but Mace knew otherwise. To be sure, the Greenhand may have laid the original gardens but the centuries since had seen more mundane hands leave their mark. The gardens had been changed and tinkered with and outright replaced several times over the years, either due to blight or simply to whether the lord of the time had a different taste in flowers than his predecessor.

Still they grew strong. And those that made them strong deserved to be appreciated.

But he as Lord Paramount of the Reach was not.

They thought him a fool. Even his own mother, the insufferable woman. Love her as he did she seemed to have no greater ambition than to undermine his authority so that she could rule in his name. Much as she had driven his father to an early grave; Mace couldn't prove anything, but he knew his father was not such a fool as to ride off a cliff without meaning to.

She had chided him for answering the Kings call. Then when he returned having made peace with the rebels she called him a fool for that. The impossibility of the situation that had confronted him seemed lost on her. Honor had demanded he answer his king's call. And when Tywin Lannister, that gilded murderer, destroyed the royal family and joined hands with the rebels, his duty to protect his family had demanded that he make peace on the best terms he could get.

Not that the mighty Queen of Thorns cared to see that. No, all were beneath her, all men were fools and all women lesser in wisdom than her. Did she even care how her reputation harmed their house? The Reach was not Dorne were whispers of a woman ruling were met with respect. His proud lords saw only weakness and scorned their overlords for it.

She told him the same thing his own spies did; that many of his bannermen plotted against him. Of course his bannermen plotted against him, it was in the nature of nobles to plot, but what was he to do? Take a cue from Tywin the Terrible and answer dissent with fire and sword, until the Reach ran red with blood?

The lords of the Reach had conspired without respite ever since the Tyrells first sat on the Roseseat; for all their grumbling, Mace had no fear of their rising in open revolt. For one thing, despite the Lannister's barbarity, the rebels were not all men of Tywin's stamp. Jon Arryn had been most obliging, and even Stannis seemed to understand the importance of honor.

In fact, Mace thought as he went to one knee at the sight of a weed amongst a rose bush, a rebellion might not be entirely a bad thing.

That was the other reason he did not fear rebellion; his loyal men far outnumbered the vain and the desperate that had to dream of glory because they lacked it and were far more united than the grumblers_._ Florent paraded his lineage too busily to realize that his pride alienated his potential supporters. The Peakes had earned a reputation for surviving failure, but only by sacrificing anything and anyone who was not essential to their desired goal. The Hightowers delayed and dithered and almost never threw their weight to one faction or another until the outcome was already decided. None of them, or any of the other houses that coveted Highgarden, trusted any of the others to sit the Roseseat.

Not that it mattered. Even if the loyal houses of the Reach were discounted, Highgarden's lands were rich and its lord was famed far and wide for his generosity to those who served him well. Five hundred knights and men-at-arms wore Mace Tyrell's livery and ate his food; in all of Westeros, only Tywin Lannister could muster a retinue so strong.

It was a pity what happened with Rhaegar, Mace mused as he examined the rose bush for a way through to the weed. He could hardly believe the prince to be a rapist. Perhaps the lady had sought escape from her boor of an intended? Gods knew that Robert had not been discreet in his wenching. Rhaegar was always a queer man, and certainly he had looked the part of a 'perfect and gentle knight', straight out of a lay of the Gardener kings. Had he simply been swept up in the romance of the thing, as men could be?

The whys and the wherefores mattered little, Mace reminded himself. Rhaegar was finished, driven from Westeros' shores never to return. If he was wise he would destroy Robert Baratheon and make a new life for himself in the east; from what Mace heard, he had found a new kingdom for himself in Myr already.

The Sour Stag was no threat, for all his dourness. Stannis made enemies easily but if he caught even a whiff of dragon in any rebellion aimed at Highgarden then royal knights would come clattering down the Roseroad. And while Mace would never consent to Tywin's dogs being let loose in his lands, they would be an excellent threat to hang over the head of anyone who got ideas above their station.

With skill honed since childhood he plucked the weed out from the rose bush without so much as touching the thorns. If his mother were there she would likely say would that the gods had made him a gardener instead of a lord.

Let her scoff. History would remember him as the lord who shepherded House Tyrell through these uncertain times and expanded their power as he did so. And she and the rest of the mockers would be either forgotten or mocked as his adversaries overcome.

_Growing Strong_ were his houses words; by the favor of the gods Mace Tyrell planned to grow very strong indeed. And it seemed the Dornish dogs were going to give him aid along the way, if what little he heard from that gods-forsaken hellhole had any truth to it. Let the Red Viper bite as he pleased. House Martell's misfortune would be House Tyrell's windfall, if Mace had anything to say about it.

XXX

"Item twenty-seven," Maester Luwin said, "a dispute between Lord Karstark and Lord Manderly regarding their respective rights in the fishing grounds off Skagos."

"What manner of dispute is it this time?" Brandon Stark asked wearily, "Is it serious, or is it just another pissing contest?"

"Lord Karstark claims that Manderly vessels are taking more than the share of fish that was allotted them by the judgement of King Jaehaerys the First," Luwin said, scanning the parchment. "Lord Manderly claims that Lord Karstark is, to quote Lord Manderly words, 'talking out of his ass', and further states that the Karstarks are the ones fishing more than their share."

"Do we know which is in the right?" Catelyn Stark asked from where she sat at Brandon's right hand, a fleece robe over her shoulders against the morning chill; even in summer, the North reminded you that winter was never far away.

Luwin shook his head. "Not on the information presented in this letter, my lady."

"Put it in the 'investigate' pile, then," Brandon said. Luwin nodded and dropped the letter in the appropriate pile. When Brandon reviewed the correspondence of the day, most of which were disputes referred to him for judgment, one of two things happened. Firstly, in cases where the right and wrong of the matter was not in dispute, judgment was given then and there, usually with a quick scrawl of 'Affirmed' in Brandon's own hand at the bottom of the letter. Such cases had usually been already judged anyway and all that was left for Brandon to do was approve them. Secondly, in cases where the facts were in dispute, Brandon would send trustworthy men to investigate the facts and summon the disputants and any witnesses to Winterfell, where Brandon would question them and issue judgment.

These judgments almost always provoked grumbling from the party who had had the decision go against them, but thankfully no one had yet disputed the validity of Brandon's judgments. If Brandon had had to sentence anyone to death, it might have been different, but fortunately that test had yet to arise. Even so, Catelyn knew, her husband practiced in secret with an axe, against the day when he might have to strike off a felon's head with his own hands. Those nights he usually came to supper morose.

"Item twenty-four," Luwin continued, "the Sunset Company has left the service of Braavos and marches south against Myr."

"Good!" Brandon barked, making their glasses rattle with a blow of his fist upon the table. "I knew my brother would cut loose of the Titan's strings eventually. Any news of the Raper's response?"

"None, my lord," Luwin said, scanning the rest of the letter. "There appears to be no word of any reaction by Myr to the company's marching."

"Caught the lizard napping, by the gods," Brandon said savagely, working his fingers as if they held Rhaegar Targaryen's throat. "Well, he'll have a rude awakening, won't he just? Old Ned'll see to that, if I know him at all. He'll have the Raper's head in a bag before he knows it's off."

Catelyn concealed a shudder. She certainly wished her good-brother well, but she hoped with equal fervor that he never returned to Westeros, much less the North. Her husband believed in his brother's loyalty as she believed in the Seven, but let Brandon misstep one time too many, and his bannermen would rush to set him aside in favor of famous, tested, _whole_ Eddard; she had no illusions about her own chances of survival in that case, much less those of the babe beneath her heart.

Until that day came, however, the best she could do was strengthen her husband's rule in any way she could and console herself with the knowledge that Rhaegar the Raper was also a dangerous man, and those who guarded him even more so. She did not actively _wish_ that her good-brother would die on a foreign field on the sword of Ser Arthur Dayne or Ser Barristan Selmy, that would be far too close to kinslaying for comfort, but it would remove at least one danger from her husband's path.

"Item twenty-five," Luwin went on, picking up another letter. "A request from Lord Hornwood that you foster his son Daryn when he reaches the right age, in answer to your declaration that you are open to fosterings."

"By all means," Catelyn said instantly. "If nothing else, my son will need a suitable playmate."

"And at the same time, we will be able to ensure Hornwood's loyalty both now and when Daryn inherits," Brandon said, smiling at his wife. "Send Halys our approval in tomorrow's correspondence."

"Item twenty-six," Luwin droned on, lifting yet another letter. "A report from Lord Manderly on the price of wheat in King's Landing . . ."


	18. Chapter 18: Rousing the Dragon

The Conclave of Magisters was often a contentious body, jealous of its prerogatives, but the events of the past year had muted their once-lively debates. The simple fact was that Rhaegar Targaryen was now King of Myr in all but title, thanks to his marriage to the only daughter of Magister Rahtheon, his feats on the borders against the forces of Lys and Tyrosh, and the fact that he commanded the largest single body of armed men in the city, in the form of his fifteen hundred-strong brigade of exiles. He had not crowned himself, yet, but he did bear the titles of Governor of the South and Protector of the City, and the gates of Myr were manned by men wearing the three-headed dragon.

So when the herald arrived bearing a message from the Sunset Company, the Conclave was hesitant about admitting him. To be sure, heralds, like ambassadors, were supposed to be sacrosanct in their persons during the course of their duties, but it was well known that Andals were all mad, and Targaryens even more so. Of a certainty some of the reports from the border skirmishes indicated that Rhaegar fought like a man with little care for his own skin.

Eventually, however, Rhaegar himself had requested that the Conclave admit the herald and receive his message. So the Conclave assembled around the oval table in the Chamber of State, with Rhaegar sitting at the right hand of Magister Rahtheon at the head of the table, and received the herald with the pomp usually reserved for foreign dignitaries. The members of the Conclave were all in their best formal robes, unornamented but perfectly tailored of some of the most expensive cloth available; on one magister's robe the sleeves were made of _silk_, part of a consignment imported at vast expense from far Yi-ti. Magister Rahtheon, whose attachment to Rhaegar had propelled to the position of Gonfalonier of the Conclave, wore the richly embroidered stole of his office draped over his wide shoulders and barrel chest; his sharp-featured face was set in the unreadable expression that had helped him so much in his rise to wealth and power. The herald wore the tabard of his profession, blazoned with the black stag on yellow of the Baratheons.

But by far the most striking man in the room was Rhaegar Targaryen, the Minstrel Prince, the Exile King. His doublet, overrobe, and hose were all of flat black linen, which was saved from being dull by a multitude of small slashings in the sleeves of his overrobe that let his crimson shirt show through like scales. If Rhaegar were even slightly more fair-complexioned the ensemble would have made him look ghostly; as it was, it merely made his handsome face severe, a severity accentuated by the short horse-tail that his hair was pulled back into and the lines on his face that hadn't been there a year and a half ago.

After the traditional announcement and exchange of greetings, the herald produced a scroll and proceeded to read it aloud.

"From His Lordship, Robert of the House of Baratheon, Captain-General of the Sunset Company, with his captains Lord Eddard Stark, Ser Brynden Tully, Ser Jaime Lannister, Ser Lyn Corbray, and Lord Victarion Greyjoy, to The Conclave of Magisters of the City of Myr, greetings.

"We are informed by reliable report that you have among you the man Rhaegar Targaryen, who styles himself as King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Defender of the Realm. We declare upon our honor that this Targaryen is an outlaw, guilty of the several crimes of kidnap, rape, and murder, the justice of which charges we will prove upon his body at his convenience. We will you, therefore, in the name of the several gods, that you withdraw your protection from him and expel him from your city. Failing this, we shall have no choice but to consider you his accessories in crime and wage war upon you as harshly as we do upon him, until such time as we are satisfied in our quarrel."

"Given under our hand at the town of Lucania, in the two hundred and eighty-fourth year after the Conquest."

The herald lowered the scroll and fastidiously re-rolled it. "There is a second letter, my lords, that I was charged to deliver to Ser Rhaegar himself," he said after he had finished rolling the scroll and handed it off to one of the Conclave's secretaries.

Rhaegar stood from his chair. "I am here," he said calmly. "I pray you, read it aloud."

The herald bowed, drew a smaller scroll out of his wallet and opened it. He perused the contents, went a little pale, and looked up at Rhaegar. "My apologies, Your Grace," he stammered, "but the language is most impolitic."

_"__Read it," _Rhaegar commanded, his expression growing slightly testy. "In full, if you please."

The herald bowed shortly and began to read haltingly. "To the . . . kidnapper Rhaegar Targaryen. We are come into this land to seek thee . . . rapist and murderer . . . and we will not leave unless we carry before us . . . your head on a pike. Signed, Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark."

All eyes turned to Rhaegar as the herald lowered the letter. Rhaegar's face was white with anger, his nostrils flared in rage, and his eyes all but burned with fury. For a long moment, the only movement in the chamber was a slight stirring of the tapestry depicting the city's founding in a draft. When at last he spoke, it was in the voice of a maddened dragon. "Your messages are heard," he said, his tone only barely short of a growl. "Get out."

The herald bowed himself out the door and almost fled down the corridor. The Conclave eyed Rhaegar nervously as he seemed to strive with himself for a long moment. At last, his expression only slightly relaxed, he turned to Magister Rahtheon. "Hire every sellsword company you can," he commanded bluntly. "Order every citizen with training at arms to present themselves for military service. We are at war."

XXX

Lyn Corbray smiled in grim satisfaction. The company had finally marched, after three sennights of preparation that had tried his patience to the limit. If he had wanted to oversee harvests or superintend the purchase of supplies, he'd have stayed in Heart's Home with his spineless brother. He had come to Essos to cement a reputation founded in the hedgerow fighting of the Rebellion and acquire a fortune, and he planned to do exactly that.

So far, he was off to a good start. He'd picked up a fair amount of coin in Pentos, as well as some lovely items from a few of the manses that his men had liberated that had fetched a pretty penny from a goldsmith in the city who had taken the hint to keep his mouth shut. And if he didn't stand as high in Baratheon's esteem as Lannister did after his display in the battle, then he had at least earned some congratulations for what he had done in Pentos.

And if the conquest of Pentos had been profitable, this campaign bade fair to be a proper gold mine. The Myrish magisters were even wealthier than their Pentoshi counterparts and liked to prove it with ostentatious display. Their taste tended to the gaudy, and in some cases bordered on atrocious, but that was all to the better; the more expensive something looked, the more it sold for, in Lyn's experience. And while he couldn't volunteer for _every_ foray against the estates that bordered the company's line of march, he could certainly convince the knights under his command to volunteer for as many of the rest as they could and keep an eye out for loose valuables, in return for a cut of the proceeds.

Lyn sighed in contentment. The day was as fine as any he had seen in the Vale, with a clear sky and a bright sun warming the earth. He was on campaign against a rich, and so far weak, enemy, with plenty of opportunity to gain wealth now and advancement later, and in the meantime a plethora of the rougher pleasures in life; good horses, good arms, good company, good wine drunk straight from the bottle around a blazing campfire to raucous song, and women for the asking if your tastes ran that way, which Lyn's didn't. _This_ was how the gods had meant a man to live.

Lyn's eye chanced across a figure shambling alongside the man-at-arms two horses ahead of him and his expression soured. Now if only he could get rid of these damned tag-alongs.

It was, he supposed, inevitable. Every estate the company raided had at least a handful of slaves about the manse and more working the fields attached thereto; easily more than a hundred slaves in total, on some of the larger ones. When the estate was raided, the overseer and guards who kept those slaves in line and at their work were killed, along with their master if he was in residence. Either way, the slaves in question now had no one to hold them to their work, and found themselves in the presence of the army that had already liberated one city's slaves. A few, a very few, had stayed on the estates for reasons of age or fear, but the majority simply gathered what few belongings they had and whatever they felt like scavenging from their master's possessions and followed the Westerosi back to the company's lines in a loose cloud, like sparks trailing a flame.

It tried Lyn's patience. Oh the freedmen had their uses, Lyn himself had a freedman serving as his personal cook and valet, but what in the world was the company supposed to do with elders and children? It wasn't like they could simply drop them off at a convenient castle; for one thing, there _weren't_ any castles in this country. For another thing, the company was marching through a hostile land and although the Myrmen seemed to be rather slow off the mark in stopping them, they were bound to wake up sooner or later. If it came to a pass where the company had to outmarch the Myrmen, there was simply no way that any but the young and physically fit among the freedmen would be able to keep pace; the others would just have to be left behind.

And that might prove difficult. Those freedmen of military age who could lay hands on weapons wasted no time in doing so, even if it was just a knife or a heavy tree branch, and they insisted on learning how to use them. If they took it into their heads to object to the unfit and the unhealthy being left behind, it would almost certainly end up being a bloody mess in a very literal sense of the term.

Lyn spat aside. Either way, it wasn't properly his concern until it happened. He just hoped Baratheon or Stark had thought of it and come up with some clever idea to keep it from getting them all killed.


	19. Chapter 19: Of Pioneers and Priests

"How many?" Eddard asked wearily.

"One hundred and twenty-seven," Lyn said, his face screwed up into the expression of a man talking about a subject he finds distasteful. "Sixty-eight of which are fit men of military age."

Eddard sighed. "Thank the gods you brought in that estate's food supplies as well," he said. "We'll be able to feed them all for a sennight or two at least. Ethan!" Eddard's squire trotted up. "Take charge of the slaves in Ser Lyn's column and get them over to the other unattached freedmen. Tell all fit men of military age to report to the Pioneers." Eddard turned back to Lyn. "Carry on, Ser Lyn."

Lyn clanked a gauntleted fist on his breastplate in salute and reined his horse around towards the Valemen's section of the company's encampment. Eddard sighed again as he turned his own horse and rode back through the encampment towards the cluster of tents at the center where the captains resided. He wanted to be able to trust Lyn Corbray but he couldn't bring himself to it. The young Valeman was just too obviously a man of ambition, always keeping an eye out for the main chance. Not that there was anything strictly wrong with that, but both his father and his foster-father taught him that it was best to keep your ambitions close to the chest. His foster-father had held that there were things that it wasn't polite to discuss in general company; ambitions, women, and most bodily functions, for instance. His father, on the other hand, had been of the opinion that it was a lot easier to keep a secret if you simply didn't talk about it.

Even so, Eddard couldn't deny that Corbray had his uses, especially as a captain of raiders. The evidence was present in his column; sixty heavy wagons, all piled high with wheat, oats, rye, and other cereals, all vital to an army on the march and all bound to be slotted into the baggage train. Men could be induced to fight without pay for a time and without shelter for a while, with good weather, but they couldn't fight without food.

That, in fact, was the main difficulty that the company had had to plan for, and one of the things that the whole campaign turned on. Six and a half thousand fighting men and almost six thousand camp followers eating four or five pounds of food daily required just over twenty-eight _tons_ of food _every day_. And that didn't count the food that their horses and oxen and mules required. If they hadn't crossed the border without warning, thereby not giving the Myrish time to cart away the harvest, they would have been in real danger of starving. Fortunately, not only had they gotten over the border and into the Myrish grain country before the Myrish had reacted, but thanks to the Braavosi spy network they had known which area of the country had had the greatest harvest, and more or less where the most productive estates could be found.

It was the main reason they had not been forced to turn away all the slaves that had flocked to them by the hundreds since they crossed the border. The news that the Sunset Company, the breakers of chains and the killers of masters, had come over the border had raced across the Myrish north-country like a grass fire in a drought and the Myrish slaves had reacted. Many that found themselves with the means and the opportunity had simply fled their masters in search of the company's lines, but others, unable to slip away, had resorted to more drastic means. Myr as a whole had three slaves for every freeborn, but on the country estates that ratio was more on the order of eleven or twelve to one. And although the overseers and guards were hard men trained to arms and used to violence, a shovel or a hoe or a billhook could kill a man just as dead as a sword or spear and ten to one would have been long odds even for Westerosi men-at-arms.

From one end of the Myrish north-country to another servile revolts flared into being as men and women with nothing to lose but lives not worth living seized their chance in both hands. Some uprisings were stamped out with bloody massacre, but more succeeded in overthrowing and slaughtering their oppressors and then struck out for the last reported location of their putative liberators. Some, more by luck than by judgment, found the company by their own efforts. Others came across one or another of the company's raiding parties and followed them back to the company's lines. Still others, more poorly led or simply less lucky, had run across one of the bands of irregular horsemen that the local magnates had called into being. These bands, composed mostly of the relatives and retainers of the magnates and often led by the district constables, roamed throughout the Myrish north-country seeking both to maintain order among the slaves by the threat or use of force and to harass the Sunset Company while the Myrish army mobilized.

When the Myrish irregulars and the escaped slaves collided, the resulting combat was invariably ruthlessly brutal; both groups were smart enough to know that their survival depended on the utter extermination of the other. Eddard recalled coming across the scene of one such skirmish that had evidently resulted in mutual annihilation; one slave, stabbed through the ribs with a dagger, had evidently used the last of his strength to strangle the Myrman who had stabbed him. He took care _not_ to think about the times they had found a scene where the Myrish irregulars had triumphed; there were things no sane man wanted to have in his head.

Of course the problem was that, once the slaves reached the Sunset Company and became freedmen, the company had to do something with them. Each meinie, the fighting-tail of the individual lords and knights of the company that could number anywhere from five to five-score, had taken on anywhere from one or two to thirty or forty freedmen to act as cooks, valets, grooms, runners, and general dogsbodies, but that still left several hundred freedmen unattached and without anything to do but get into trouble, which the military-aged fit men among them tended to do when they demanded that a knight treat them like men instead of slaves, to the incomprehension, mild shock, and general consternation of the knight in question. The resulting problem of discipline had been agonized over by the captains for a full sennight until one evening Ser Brynden had frowned and asked, "Why don't we use them as pioneers?"

When Robert had asked him what the devil he meant, he explained that the Ghiscari legions, and later the Valyrian Freehold, had employed companies of men trained in construction and engineering who were responsible for constructing army camps, building bridges and roads, constructing walls and buildings, and digging mines, among other duties. It was these men, he explained, who had laid the beds of the famous Valyrian roads, although the final paving and sealing of the roads had been done by magic. Of course, getting men-at-arms to do such things would be a nigh-impossibility; even if they weren't nobles, digging and hauling was the sort of thing they had become soldiers to avoid. On the other hand, the freedmen didn't have such pretensions, were already used to hard manual labor, and although the company was short of hard cash after buying up about a quarter of Pentos' total harvest and there was a shortage of proper tools, those without tools could be used to carry and emplace. Even better, it was found that one of the two maesters who had accompanied the company to Essos to chronicle its deeds had forged a few links in architecture; apparently his father had been a stonemason and had hoped that his son might return to the family business. However, despite Maester Gordon's talent for building his true love was history, hence his reason for volunteering to follow the company

So the call was put out for volunteers to serve in the Corps of Pioneers at half the rate of a footman's pay under the direct command of Captain-General Robert Baratheon, Maester Gordon was named as their deputy commander, the sliced-pie arrangement of the company's encampment was expanded to make space for them, and those volunteers that took the star were brought under military discipline and their days were filled with either work or training. Some in the company regarded them as a mild joke, but Eddard had to think differently. A day's march away was a stream whose name translated into Common as Catblood Creek. According to the people they had questioned about the terrain, Catblood Creek wasn't particularly broad or deep, but it flowed swiftly and its banks were steep-sided. More importantly, there was no ford for twenty miles either upstream or down and, according to a band of escapees who had come in two days ago, the bridge that the company had been making for had been torn down by Myrish irregulars. Furthermore, the company had already stripped almost all the estates within easy reach of the bridge-site of food.

The Pioneers would have to earn their pay, or the company would risk being pinned against the creek with no way across. If that happened, they would be eating their draft animals in a sennight, their horses three days after that, and then they would be eating their belts and boots to stave off starvation.

XXX

Maester Gordon beamed satisfaction at his men. "Well done, lads," he said in his rote-learned Low Valyrian. "Well done indeed. Bloody well showed those joking sods who didn't think you were worth your feed, didn't we?"

His men growled agreement, flourishing their tools. In two days, these men, most of whom had never worked a major construction project before, had thrown a bridge across a creek twenty-five feet wide from bank to sheer bank that could take a heavy wagon with a full load. For caution's sake, they were driving the wagons across one at a time, which would take at least a full day and probably two, but they were getting across, by the gods. And in case there was any doubt about who was responsible for that minor miracle, he had taken the time to paint a sign that read, "Cross Catblood Creek with dry feet, courtesy of the Corps of Pioneers."

"Second section, remain on duty in case one of the wagons goes in the drink. The rest of you, fall out and have the rest of the evening to yourselves, you've earned it," he said, throwing up his hands. "Dismiss!"

As the Pioneers streamed away to their fires, Septon Jonothor, the senior of the septons who had followed the company to Essos, walked up and surveyed the bridge with a critical eye. "Well done, Maester," he said, his harsh voice not mellowed by the note of approval. "Although I was almost looking forward to a wade, in this heat."

Gordon shrugged. "Nothing stopping you, Father," he said equably. "And the job wasn't as hard as all that. It was a clapper bridge, initially; basically a pair of bloody great stone slabs held up in the middle by a pile of stones. The Myrish dropped the slabs in the river and tore down the pile; just a matter of reassembling it, really. And putting in new piles underneath the slabs to help them take the weight of the wagons. I'd have preferred to double the width of the bridge, but we didn't have the materials."

Jonothor nodded as they watched a wagon inch its way across. They made for an interesting visual contrast. Gordon had inherited the stout build of his stonemason father, with beefy arms, a chest like a barrel, and a broad, amiable face he kept meticulously shaven, despite the fact that they were on campaign and so growing a beard would be understandable. Jonothor, on the other hand, was tall and sparely built, with an angularly severe face that wasn't helped by his habit of wearing a stern expression.

"Do you truly think that we can actually win?" Gordon asked as the wagon made its way onto dry land. "Not that I doubt the skill and bravery of our captains, of course, but taking on a whole continent smells an awful lot like hubris to me."

Jonothor shrugged. "If the gods will it so, anything is possible," he said with a voice of such absolute certainty that it made Gordon blink. "And our captains are sound and godly men, for the most part." He made a face. "I could wish that we had no pagans among us, but Lord Stark's grievance is just, and he is properly respectful of the Faith."

Gordon almost asked what Jonothor thought of Lord Greyjoy, but decided against it at the last minute. _Remember why the Archmaesters sent you out here in the first place, old man . . ._ "And we are not making war against a whole continent, my son," Jonothor continued. "Only one city, and that weakened by the evils it practices."

"One city that controls enough territory to rival the Riverlands or the Westerlands in size," Gordon replied, gesturing at the lightly rolling fields surrounding them; farmland that equaled anything in the Reach and with a climate to match. Myr grew damned near any kind of crop except for citrus, or so he was told. Apparently the climate wasn't quite warm enough for citrus trees. "And has more people than either of them. These plantations don't just feed their owners and their slaves, Father, but towns as big as any in Westeros. Ceralia alone has thirty thousand souls within its walls, and Myr city has ten times that many. We have, what, six or seven thousand spears?" Gordon spread his hands. "You have to admit, Father, that the odds do not exactly favor us, even before the rest of the continent is added in."

"The odds did not favor Artys Arryn at the Battle of the Seven Stars," Jonothor countered, "but by the gods' grace and the skill and courage of his men, he triumphed, and so the Vale was conquered. And I tell you again, we do not face the whole continent, but merely one city."

"One city in this campaign, perhaps," Gordon said, before turning to his Pioneers where they lounged on the edge of the creek-bank. "Gaenys, keep your hands to yourself! I see you, you light-fingered bugger! But the other cities won't take kindly to having us for neighbors," he continued. "Nor will our own men let us live in peace with slavers. My Pioneers have sworn blood-oath that when they get to Myr they won't leave a single slaveholder alive. And judging by the way they practice at arms when they're not at work, they mean it." He shrugged. "I don't particularly mind dying; I'm an old man. But I'd like to know that I died for a cause that stood a chance of winning."

Jonothor eyed him. "We fight in a worthy cause, against men who have profaned against the gods by word and deed," he said severely. "Whether we win or lose, those who fall will be welcomed by the gods as heroes, and sit at their right hands on the day of judgment. But we will not lose," he continued, eyes burning. "The gods will see that we fight against abomination, and even the pagans among us will receive the Warrior's strength, and the Father's hand will shield them. Those we free will flock to our banner, as they did in Pentos, and even the weakest of them will be made as lions by the power of the gods. Even should the slavers march against us in their thousands and their tens of thousands, we shall conquer, for the gods will fight at our side."

Gordon shrugged. "If you say so, Father," he said, turning back to watch another wagon rumble off the bridge. "I just hope that the gods give us reinforcements."

_After the crossing of Catblood Creek, the Sunset Company proceeded south towards the town of Ceralia. This town was the hub of Myr's northern lands, hosting both the largest market and the largest livestock fair in the region as well as serving as the home base of the Governor of the North. This provoked a hasty response from Rhaegar; his hold over Myr was not so strong that he could afford to have one of its major satellite towns fall without fighting for it. And fight for it he would have to. The Governor of the North had sent word that he didn't have enough soldiers to both hold the walls and prevent a slave uprising within the town, and in any case the town's defenses were in too poor a state of repair to hold against an assault. _

_So Rhaegar marched north towards Ceralia with only half the men he had planned on mustering, and despite the slowness of his muster he marched with commendable dispatch; a bare sennight and a half after setting out, the Army of Myr and the Sunset Company met on opposite sides of a shallow valley near the village of Tara._

\- _Chasing Dragons: The Sunset Company Reexamined _by Maester Hendricus, published 1539 AC


	20. Chapter 20: The Dragon and the Stag

Rhaegar felt no great swell of pride as he surveyed the Army of Myr. Despite his work over the past year, the fact remained the only part of the army that he could truly rely on were his own exiles; loyal men who had followed him over the sea rather than serve the Usurper or his callow brother. Of the rest, more than half were levied citizens of Myr city and its satellite towns, men who not only would much rather be back in their homes than facing angry strangers on a distant field, but men who considered the profession of arms to be beneath them. To be sure, Myr had bravos enough, and plenty of young men who played the part as they fancied, but aside from dueling to uphold the honor of their house, no proper Myrish aristocrat would dream of going for a soldier except in extremity. Fighting wars was work for sellswords, not noblemen, to the Essosi way of thinking. Speaking of sellswords, almost a third of Rhaegar's army was made up of them, and it made him nervous. He didn't doubt that they would stand by their contract; a sellsword who broke their contract was a sellsword that no one would hire, after all. But they were expensive, and not likely to be resilient in extremity. If his coffers ran dry, or the Usurper defeated them, it would not be implausible that they would employ the escape clause in their contract and desert. As they would point out, their contract only specified that they would fight under Myr's command. It said nothing about fighting to the death in a hopeless cause. And if Rhaegar missed three pay days in a row, then that was sufficient cause for them to break their contract and seek employment elsewhere.

Rhaegar shook his worries out of his head and looked across the shallow valley. He had enough troubles without borrowing more.

Across the valley, the Sunset Company was arrayed in splendor, its lines gleaming with late-summer sunlight on spearheads and thick with banners. Many of them were from the rebel houses, of course, but there were a few from the Reach, a cluster of men under the golden kraken of the Greyjoys, and a whole division flying Western banners under the lion rampant of the Lannnisters. Rhaegar felt his blood boil at the sight of the lion banners. _Traitors. Murderers. Oathbreakers._ He clamped down on the building fury with clenched jaw and thinned lips. It would be unseemly for him to rant and rage in public, as gratifying as it might be. His wife and children would be avenged soon enough, now.

But there was one banner that flew above the crowned stag in the center that angered him even more than the Lannister's; the sunset with the severed dragons-head impaled on the black sword. There could be no clearer statement of intent on Baratheon's part.

Rhaegar mastered his anger and reviewed the plan in his head. It was quite simple really. March the army forward until the crossbows were in range and then have the crossbows bombard the rebels. If the rebels stood fast to be shot, so much the better. If they advanced, then Rhaegar could countercharge them with his exiles and the three sellsword companies his goodfather had hired, the Long Lances, the Stormcrows, and the Company of the Cat. Just over four thousand cavalry should suffice to handle the rebel knights. And if it came to a general brawl . . . Rhaegar smiled at the thought. Fear would make even the most reluctant of his Myrmen savage, and his army outnumbered the Sunset Company by two to one. All else aside, numbers told.

XXX

Jacaegon Valreos, 'Jace' to his friends, hadn't particularly wanted to be a crossbowman.

However, when the Conclave of Magisters had decreed that every adult male citizen was to learn the crossbow or the spear and spend at least one day in seven at drill with it, the only thing left to do had been to choose which he preferred. Especially since the Andal knights who had been placed in charge of the training program had made it plain that anyone who shirked their new duties would _deeply _regret it, along with anyone who helped them do so.

Jace had never been a particularly large man to begin with and years as a clerk in his great-uncle's shipping business hadn't done anything to improve his physique. So he had chosen to become a crossbowman; the new cranequin-cranked crossbows required almost none of the brute strength that a spearman needed and, with any luck, the enemy would be safely far away when Jace killed them. Not that he was a craven, just sensible; logically speaking, any man he was trying to kill was likely to take offense and would almost certainly be much better at hand-to-hand physical violence than Jace was. Let the Andal madmen have their fun cutting the enemy's guts out with daggers; if Jace was going to risk his personal, precious hide on a battlefield, then he would stay well out of any melee and kill the enemy from far enough away that they couldn't kill him back.

Or so Jace had thought, anyway. When he had reported for training, no one had told him that the crossbowmen would be the first ones sent against the enemy.

When the order came down for the crossbowmen to advance, Jace's first instinct had been to tell the sergeant to piss off; gods all witness that Jacaegon Valreos had no desire whatsoever to walk towards a pack of angry foreigners who would think nothing of killing him in inventively painful ways. Several things, however, had stopped him. Firstly, the sergeant, a former sellsword with an array of scars that was as impressive as it was disturbing, was twice his size and would have no problem at all enforcing the law against disobedience to orders with his bare hands if Jace made any trouble. Secondly, everyone around him had started marching forward, which had both carried Jace along and would have made any attempted malingering instantly noticeable. Thirdly, while the foreigners might kill him, the Andals would _certainly_ kill him if he displayed what gravel-voiced Ser Alliser Thorne, who had read out the Articles of War to them, had described as 'cowardice in the face of the enemy'.

Fourth and lastly, the enemy weren't just any pack of foreigners. They were the Sunset Company, the foreigners who had helped the damned Braavosi (he automatically thought the name in his great-uncles harsh voice, followed by a hawked gob of spittle as the old man remembered sundry slights and humiliations) conquer Pentos and overthrow slavery. Jace's branch of the Valreos family wasn't wealthy enough to own many slaves, nothing like the hordes that some of the magisters employed in the workshops of the artisans quarter or on the fields of their country estates, but they did own a cook and a housekeeper, as well as his mother's maid and the nurse who had cared for Jace and his younger sisters. Jace had heard tales of slaves who had mistreated by their masters, and it was true that when the housekeeper had tried to abscond his father had had the constables brand her on the face with the runaway's 'R', but all in all, he saw nothing wrong with slavery as an institution. He did believe that a master who had to enforce discipline with chains and the lash was a poor master, but taken as a whole, he believed that slavery was the way the world was meant to be, and that both master and slave benefitted. The master received the slave's service, and in return the slave was fed, clothed, and housed, and could be rewarded for exemplary service. But the Andals, for some mad reason, believed as an article of their faith that slavery was not just wrong but an abomination, and that those who owned slaves were enemies to be killed on sight.

Jace was not naturally a man of blood, and he shared the mild disdain for such men common among the bourgeoisie and aristocrats of the Free Cities, but he would certainly fight to the death to protect his home, his parents, and his sisters.

So he walked forward with six thousand other young Myrmen into the shallow valley that separated the Army of Myr from the Sunset Company. The crossbow in his hands with its iron cranequin was heavy and clumsy, the quiver with its sixty bolts bounced annoyingly against his hip, the short falchion on his other hip threatened to entangle his legs and trip him, and the padded vest and round halfhelm that were his only armor did altogether too good a job of capturing the heat of the bright and cloudless day, but he and the other crossbowmen still trotted down the slope in good heart, a few even making jokes about going for a walk. Jace simply focused on walking forward and ignoring the nervousness that was building in his guts about walking towards a large group of armed and dangerous strangers, but he did admit that the scattered jokes helped to settle his stomach.

"Steady now, boys," the sergeant called reassuringly. "Don't get ahead of yourselves, keep in ranks. Just stay together now."

The crossbowmen continued to advance, drawing steadily away from their own army. They were still almost a hundred yards out of range when there was a ripple of motion along the far ridge.

"Steady, boys," the sergeant called, an edge of tension in his voice now. "Stay steady, those are just their archers, nothing to worry about." Jace would have begged to differ, but knew better than to try and contradict the sergeant.

There was a further ripple of motion along the far ridge.

"Steady, boys, steady," the sergeant called, and then there was a noise like a horribly out of tune harp string being plucked very badly, so that the note was flat and blurred, and a line of darkness rose from the far ridge. Jace's jaw dropped involuntarily; the enemy was shooting at them already?! But they were still dozens of yards out of range! Dammit, it wasn't _fair_! Jace suddenly became hideously aware that the turmoil in his belly had intensified. He clenched his jaw to keep from vomiting.

"Steady, boys!" the sergeant yelled, as there was another botched plucking of that mistuned harp string and another line of darkness rose off the ridge. Jace quailed even as his feet bore him forward, almost against his will. The enemy archers were firing _again_? But their first volley was still in the air! And speeding along, he realized with sudden terrible clarity, straight towards one Jacaegon Valreos, only son of Galaemon and Jaenera Valreos. The turmoil in his guts rose to new heights at the thought of iron-tipped wood raining down his personal, precious, and irreplaceable head, with only a few centimeters of iron to keep arrowheads out of his skull.

Jace suddenly wanted, very badly indeed, to be back at home; preferably at the Dancing Doe with a glass of good wine and the best girl in the house all to himself for the whole night. Although he would settle for being set to counting inventory in his great-uncle's largest warehouse all by himself. Anything to get away from the iron rain that was hissing down towards him.

"Take it like men, boys!" the sergeant roared, and the arrows hit.

There were, in total, two thousand eight hundred and seven archers standing under the Sunset Company's banner that day on the field of Tara. Each of them drew a longbow of yew or ash or elm, the lightest of which had a draw-weight of ninety-five pounds and could outrange the Myrish crossbows by about a hundred yards. These men were every bit as highly-trained experts, in their way, as the company's knights were; as the saying went, 'To make a good archer, start with his grandfather'. The true advantage imparted by that training wasn't just in the power or range of the bows, however.

It was in their rate of fire.

It was generally agreed that in order to be useful on the battlefield, an archer had to be able to loose ten arrows in one minute, almost three times the rate of fire that could be expected of a cranequin crossbow such as the Army of Myr used. Two thousand eight hundred and seven archers, firing ten arrows a minute, yielded an arrowstorm numbering twenty-eight thousand and seventy arrows a minute, or four hundred and sixty-eight arrows _every second._

In the first minute of the Battle of Tara, the archers of the Sunset Company loosed enough arrows to kill every crossbowman in the Army of Myr almost five times over.

Of course, not all of those arrows hit. Shooting for effect sacrifices accuracy for volume of fire, especially at long range. Almost a third of the arrows hit nothing but dirt. Of the rest, about one in six struck armor or equipment and were either absorbed or deflected away. The rest hit something more vital.

Screams rose up around Jace as the arrows struck home. The man just next to him, who had looked up at the falling arrows, took a shaft plumb in the eyeball and collapsed like a marionette with its strings cut. Another took two arrows through his padded vest and dropped to his knees to choke his life out in bloody gouts. Another fell to ground howling as he tried to squeeze the pain out of his transfixed thigh. Yet another, shot through the groin, seemed to be screaming without pausing to draw breath.

Jace vomited in reaction, and continued to plod forward, hunching his shoulders like a man walking into a high wind, trying to shut out everything but the sergeant, who was now bellowing to make himself heard over the screaming wounded.

The second volley was worse

_The Myrish crossbowmen made it within range of the Sunset Company's position and even found the courage to loose a volley of their own before they finally broke and ran back to their own lines. Although the men of the Sunset Company, or those who left records, were almost universally contemptuous of the Essosi, the bravery of the Myrish crossbowmen at Tara won respect even from the most chauvinistic Westerosi, while more moderate commentators were more openly admiring. Gerion Lannister, in his diary, ended his account of the Myrish crossbowmen by quoting a passage from a popular chanson of the Conquest of Dorne commenting on Ser Uther Dayne, who was Sword of the Morning during the Conquest; "Such a vassal he might have been, had he served a better lord."_

Rhaegar watched his crossbowmen streaming back towards the army's lines and snarled. He should have guessed that the Usurper would make sure to have an abundance of archers. He would have paid dearly to have such men available to him, but the Free Cities didn't produce military archers any more than they did knights. Any man with the wealth to acquire a bow and the free time to train with it could just as easily buy a crossbow, especially in Myr, where the slave artisans made them by the thousands, and crossbows were much easier to attain proficiency with.

A chill of anticipation settled into his bones as he turned to his Kingsguards. Ser Alliser Thorne and Ser Lothor Brune, their newest members, all but bursting at the seams with fierce pride. Ser Oswell Whent, his normally sardonic grin absent as he returned his king's gaze. And Ser Arthur Dayne, his closest friend in all the world and his fiercest champion, his dark-blue eyes solemn under the brow of his helmet.

"Gentlemen," Rhaegar said, "it is time. To your posts." Ser Alliser and Ser Lothor clanked their gauntleted fists off their breastplates and cantered away to their places at the head of the Myrish spearmen. Ser Oswell and Ser Arthur assumed their positions on either side of Rhaegar, Arthur on his right and Oswell on his left. Rhaegar turned to his trumpeter. "Sound the advance," he commanded. The trumpeter nodded, raised his instrument to his lips, and blew, the long rising notes splitting the air. Rhaegar drew his sword and aimed it at the Sunset Company. "Forward!" he shouted, pitching his voice to carry as far as it could. "Forward! Fire and Blood!"

The Army of Myr rolled down the hill, its line quickly becoming uneven as the infantry of the Company of the Cat began to outstrip the Myrish spearmen. Not that the Myrmen were deliberately lagging, with Rhaegar's loyalists behind them, but the Company of the Cat was more used to maneuvering as a single unit; before now, the Myrmen had only practiced maneuvering in hundred-strong companies. On the right rode the five hundred horsemen of the Stormcrows, led by their three captains; Sallor the Bald with his twisting scar warped by his pensive frown, Prendahl na Ghezn, whose broad face was as composed as a king riding to council, and Daario Naharis twisting his gold-painted mustachios between his gauntleted fingers. On the left flank rode the Long Lances, eight hundred of the best lancers in Essos although they were more lightly-armored than the Andal knights, with their homely captain Gylo Rhegan at their head. Behind the front line rode the cavalry of the Company of the Cat led by the bulky figure of their captain Bloodbeard, his famous red beard bristling over his breastplate, and Rhaegar's loyalists, the lean figure of their black-armored king at their head flanked by his Kingsguards.

As they marched down the slope and into the valley, absorbing the retreating crossbowmen as they go, they entered the zone where the Sunset Company's archers shot the crossbowmen to ribbons. The arrows rise and fall again, but the Myrmen and the sellswords raised shields and plodded on; if the Myrmen are unenthusiastic about dying far from home at the hands of angry strangers, they know that to retreat without orders is to die, and their shields are protecting them well enough to let them continue. As for the sellsword infantry, they have walked through fields of dying men before, and faced downpours of steel rain before; to take the punishment and march on was their work and their pride.

XXX

Sarra's Will, an archer from the Reach, cursed as his questing fingers found nothing but an empty quiver. "I'm out," he said to the man behind him as he unstrung his bow. "Your turn, ser knight, and best of luck to you." Ser Basil Graves, whose family owned the village where Will had lived before going for a sellsword, grunted acknowledgement and pushed forward, raising his poleaxe so that the butt-spike was presented forward and the spike-backed hammer head that could break a man's skull through the helmet was cocked back behind his left ear. Will squeezed back through the line, passing Ser Andrey's squire and a spearman from Bitterbridge who was muttering prayers under his breath before reaching the rear, where he reached back over his left shoulder and drew a maul out of its carrying loops. A maul was quite crude as weapons went, being essentially a steel hammerhead mounted on a four-foot haft, but with an archer's huge strength behind it, it could batter a knight to flinders. Will braced his shoulder against the spearman's back, said a prayer, and waited for the impact.

All along the line, the scene was repeated; the archers ran out of arrows and fell back through the lines, while the knights and men-at-arms pushed forward to from the front with their squires and the infantry just behind them. The Stormlanders and the footmen of the North held the left, while the Valemen and the infantry of the Westerlands stood on the right. On the left wing was the cavalry of the North, Eddard Stark at their head with a predatory look in his eyes at the sight of the dragon banners. On the right wing stood the knights and the men-at-arms of the Westerlands, with Jaime Lannister in the front rank with the great bulk of Gregor Clegane at his left hand. In the rear waited the Riverlanders and the Ironborn, waiting for the command from Brynden Tully that would send them into the fray. The front rank was studded with the champions of the Sunset Company. Leobald Tallhart, Maege Mormont and her daughter Dacey, and Greatjon Umber stood at the head of the Northmen. Ser Clifford Swann, saturnine Ser Brus Buckler, and Ser Willam 'Silveraxe' Fell with his famous axe led the Stormlanders, while Robert Baratheon stood at the center of the line. In the front rank of the Valemen stood Ser Eustace Hunter, Ser Lyn Corbray, and gravely elegant Ser Mychel Egen, while at the head of the Westermen were Ser Lyle Crakehall, Ser Tygett Lannister, and broadly mustachioed Ser Elys Westerling.

These men were some of the deadliest slayers in the world, both individually and collectively. They had been sidetracked by the conquest of Pentos, but now their enemy was before them. The oaths of vengeance they had taken back in Westeros burned in their minds at the sight of the dragon banners, and even the Westermen, who cared little for the rights and wrongs of the matter, became infected with the wrath that was spreading through the Company. Already the Northmen were chanting "Charge! Charge!" and the Northern horse and the Western knights were trotting forward.

Robert Baratheon felt the fury that was his bloodline's heritage sear through his veins like fire. The man, no, the _vermin_ that had abducted, raped, and murdered his betrothed and dumped her body in the sea like so much garbage was before him. Now, by the gods, he would have his revenge. He raised his great hammer over his head. "AT THEM!" he roared, letting the hammer fall to point at the enemy. "JUSTICE AND VENGEANCE!"

The company roared like a storm breaking on the cliffs of Shipbreaker Bay as they rushed forward.

_The initial clash of the Sunset Company and the Army of Myr was fearsome by all accounts. No less an authority than Ser Brynden Tully, in his memoirs, claimed that the Battle of Tara "was more fiercely fought than any battle I had ever been in before that time, and in all my later experience it was equaled but never surpassed for ferocity." Septon Jonothor, writing to a colleague in King's Landing, said "Never have I seen men become possessed of a fury such as they were possessed at Tara. I can only imagine that the Warrior, seeing that we fought against slavers, was moved to assist our arms and lent us his anger."_

_Whatever the cause for the ferocity of the combat, the initial clash went in favor of the Sunset Company; on their right the Company of the Cat was stopped dead in their tracks, while on their left the Myrish spearmen were actually driven a short way back down the hillside with Ser Lothor Brune of the Kingsguard being killed at the head of his battle by Ser Brus Buckler. However, the breakthrough was quickly stemmed. Ser Alliser Thorne rallied his battle against the Northmen, killing Leobald Tallhart and pressing his company back some twenty yards according to Maester Alleras' history of the battle, while Rhaegar himself committed his exiles to the fray. On the other side of the battle, Bloodbeard committed his cavalry to the fight and bogged the Sunset Company's right into a grinding stalemate._

_Fortunately for the Sunset Company, Robert had had the wit to place his reserves under possibly the best commander on the whole field . . ._

Brynden Tully reined in beside Victarion Greyjoy. "Your lads ready to go in, Greyjoy?" he asked gruffly.

"Aye, they are," Victarion replied, running the thumb of his gauntlet along the edge of his axe. "They've been desperate for a proper fight since Pentos, haven't you lads?"

That last was pitched to carry to the nine hundred reavers behind him, who replied with laughter and catcalls, including one fellow who claimed that a good fight wasn't the only thing he was desperate for and that in his state, even a Myrman would do.

"We come too," said a guttural voice behind Brynden, who turned to find Akhollo, who he knew vaguely as one of the more prominent freedmen despite not joining the Pioneers, wearing an ill-fitting mail shirt and carrying a sword sloped against his shoulder. And beside him was Maester Gordon, still in his maester's robes but with a belligerent expression on his face.

Brynden blinked. "You're not in the company," he said finally, knowing even as he said it that the argument sounded lame. "And your people aren't equipped for a fight like this," he jerked a thumb towards the battle. "They'll be massacred."

Akhollo stepped forward and grasped Brynden's ankle. "We slaves," he said, his accent thickening even further. "Then you kill our masters, free us. Now we men." Akhollo shook Brynden's ankle, his eyes earnest. "Men _fight_," he said sincerely. "Fight for khal, fight for hate, fight for food, fight for gifts. Best fight for _freedom_. We have sworn, fight for freedom." Akhollo's eyes were steely now. "_All_ have sworn," he said, voice burning with fervor. "We fight, and be free or dead, as stars look down in witness."

Gordon nodded. "My Pioneers want in, too," he said, his voice firm. "If you don't take them in, they'll go in anyway."

_Gods of blood and death,_ Brynden thought amazedly, _he means it._ And, realizing, he knew that he could not refuse the freedmen a place in the battle line. But the thought of the freedmen, poorly armed and worse armored, fighting proper soldiers made him quail. He turned to Victarion, almost willing him to object.

"What are you looking at me for?" Victarion demanded. "I heard him. They want to pay the iron price for their freedom, I'm not going to say them nay." There was an approving murmur from the ranks of the Ironborn, and Dagmer Cleftjaw nodded his grizzled head sagely.

_Gods forgive me,_ Brynden thought, turning back to Akhollo. "You wait for the trumpet," he said, "and then you follow us in. Understand?"

Akhollo nodded. "We fight," he said. "We kill masters, and free slaves." He grinned, baring his teeth. "We kill _all_ masters," he said savagely, "and free _all_ slaves. We pray for it." He saluted with his sword and trotted back to the freedmen, already roaring what sounded like orders in the Low Valyrian/Dothraki/Common Tongue argot that the freedmen seemed to have adopted as a language. Gordon flicked a finger off his brow in a token salute and dashed away himself, also roaring for his Pioneers.

Brynden shook his head wearily and turned back to Victarion. "On the trumpet," he reminded him, and cantered back to his Riverlanders.

_While the infantry were slugging it out in the center, two separate cavalry battles were taking place on the flanks. On the right of the Sunset Company, the Western knights under the command of Jaime Lannister repeated their performance at the Battle of Pentos by breaking the Long Lances. On the other flank, the Northern horse under the command of Eddard Stark faced the Stormcrows . . ._

Daario Naharis broke out of the melee, swearing in stupefaction. _What in the hells do they _feed_ cavalrymen across the Narrow Sea_, he asked himself as he brandished his arakh overhead and roared for any Stormcrows to rally to him.

Daario had been a cavalryman for going on eleven years now and in all that time he had only participated in three massed cavalry fights. Most campaigns were taken up in maneuvers, largely focusing on raiding the other side's territory while protecting one's own; battles were such chancy things that most captains avoided them except in extremity. The company received as much pay whether they lost half their men or none at all, and sellswords appreciated a captain who didn't waste their blood. Dead men didn't get to enjoy their pay, after all.

The role of cavalry in such operations was taken up primarily with reconnaissance during the maneuvers and sparring on the flanks of the armies in the rare battles. These conflicts could get bloody, certainly, and the quicksilver slash-and-run war between two armies' outriders had the potential to become gruesome especially between companies that hated each other, but the need for massed combat rarely arose. Of the three such battles that Daario had fought in, only one had arisen by design, during a particularly nasty border war between Volantis and Norvos; the other two had happened by accident, when the Stormcrows, maneuvering in a body, had stumbled across another company and no one had had time to call matters off before the first blood was shed.

Apparently no one had told these Andal horsemen the rules, though. Instead of darting back and forth and exchanging sallies of small parties with the Stormcrows, they had all rolled forward in a solid mass, knee to armored knee, apparently dead-set on colliding with the company at full speed. Thank the gods that Sallor and Prendahl had seen that the only thing to do was meet the charge with one of their own; Daario didn't want to think what taking that charge at the standstill would have been like. The melee that had followed the impact was more terrible than anything Daario cared to remember; howling Andals coming out of the dust waving swords or axes or spiked maces and nothing to do but block, cut back, and ride on, trying desperately to see in ten directions at once while the screams of men and horses filled the air.

Daario knew himself to be a brave man; where other men trembled at the prospect of a fight he felt elated. But the thought of diving back into that swirling, snarling brawl frightened him.

Ruthlessly he drove the fear from his mind. The company was in that mess. And the first law of the sellsword was that you didn't run out on your company. Daario howled encouragement to the handful of Stormcrows that had rallied to his side, raked back his spurs, and plunged into the maelstrom.

_The Northern cavalry eventually broke the Stormcrows, but a remnant retreated in good order under the command of Daario Naharis, who with the deaths of his co-captains Sallor the Bald and Prendahl na Ghezn was the senior surviving officer of the Stormcrows. Despite his victory, Eddard faced some difficulty in reforming his horsemen, as casualties had to be carried off and the squadrons reformed._

_In the center, the battle was only intensifying . . ._

Ever after, the men who fought in the center at the Battle of Tara would remember it for its noise. The clamor of metal on metal, the drumming of horse's hooves, the shouts and trumpet calls of orders attempting to get through the clangor, but most of all the screams. Screaming men and screaming horses, their flesh torn and their bones broken, filled the air. More than one veteran would later claim that they could tell how a man was wounded by the way he screamed, but such differences were lost in the cacophony of the battle.

It was into this maelstrom of noise that Rhaegar Targaryen committed his reserves, his loyalists on his right and the horse of the Company of the Cat on his left. The effect was akin to bouncers plunging into a tavern brawl. Slowly, little by little, the Sunset Company was pressed back by the weight of metal and flesh that crashed into the fray. The Northmen, rallied by Maege Mormont and the towering Greatjon, closed ranks and refused to budge, and the Westermen on the other flank locked shields and stood fast under the leadership of Tygett Lannister, but in the center the Valemen, the Stormlanders, and the Reachmen slowly gave ground. Ser Clifford Swann died there when Ser Alliser Thorne rammed his sword through the marcher knight's visor and face into his brain. Rhaegar Targaryen, who for all his faults was not a coward, slew Ser Basil Graves with a downward cut that knocked the Reacher to his knees and under his destrier's hooves where he was trampled to death. Bloodbeard of the Company of the Cat slew five of the best knights of the Vale in succession as he pushed forward, laughing uproariously with the battle-joy. A breakthrough seemed imminent.

At that moment a trumpet screamed the charge, and the reserves of the Sunset Company entered the fray. On the right the Ironborn advanced, chanting a battle-song in a tongue that was old before the first Andal set foot in Westeros as Victarion Greyjoy threw his axe in the air to spin end over end in a blur of wood and steel before plucking it out of the air. On the left, Ser Brynden Tully led the Riverlanders in a dismounted charge that carried the Northmen forward with them and turned the Myrish right from a relatively orderly formation to a struggling mass. And in the center, with a tigerish roar of "Free or dead!" the freedmen dived into the fray.

The freedmen were only lightly armored in scavenged mail and brigandines, and their weapons ranged from spears and shields taken from the dead to bare hands. They were poorly drilled, and even the Pioneers, the best-trained men among them, were in no kind of formation. But between them they had more than ten thousand years' worth of bottled-up slights and humiliations and injuries to avenge, and the primal hatred of the slave for the slave-owner consumed them. So when the freedmen plunged into the center, they hit with the force of a cavalry charge and stopped the advance of Rhaegar's army dead in its tracks. Ser Gyles Rosby was dragged from his horse by a Pioneer with a pick and beaten to a paste by the rest of his dismounter's squad. A freedman clinging to his sword arm undid Ser Jaremy Rykker, who flung the man to the ground and ran him through the belly in the time it would have taken him to dodge Robert Baratheon's great hammer. The remaining Myrish spearmen fought desperately and built a low berm of dead freedmen before their shield-wall, but the tide of freedmen submerged them.

Now all semblance of orderly lines and closed ranks was swept away and combatants from both armies were intermingled. Ser Alliser Thorne struck down three Riverlander spearmen in quick succession and then fell himself as Dacey Mormont's mace collapsed the back of his helmet. The verses of _The Seven-Pointed Star _filigreed across Ser Guncer Sunglass's breastplate failed to protect him against the Greatjon's massive blade and the pious lord of Sweetport Sound fell to the roaring Northman's greatsword. Lyn Corbray and Bloodbeard were twice swept together and swept apart by the tides of struggling men and horses before a third engagement ended with Lyn's dagger buried in the sellsword captain's visor slit. Ser Tygett Lannister stood over the body of Akhollo, who had been stunned by a spear-shaft across the head, and died when a Cat's axe cut through his gorget. Ser Elys Westerling was clubbed down and beaten into red ruin by a squad of Cats with mauls.

But the most important combat occurred when Robert Baratheon, roaring his battle-fury to the skies, met Rhaegar Targaryen in close combat while his household men occupied the Kingsguards. The singers tell that the Great Stag's first blow slew the Exile Prince's horse, so that Rhaegar fell to the ground. They also tell that Robert and Rhaegar stood toe-to-toe for nigh on half an hour trading blows, but that is false. In reality, the storied duel lasted a handful of heartbeats. Rhaegar lunged, aiming for the seams in Robert's fauld, but he was foiled by a rising parry that sent the point of his sword scraping across Robert's breastplate. Robert, wielding his hammer two-handed, rammed the butt of his hammer into Rhaegar's visor to force him back, and then swung for Rhaegar's head. Rhaegar raised his sword and ducked, but not strongly enough and not far enough and the hammerblow clipped him over the top of his helmet, sending him sprawling.

Rhaegar would certainly have died there, for Robert was even then raising his hammer to finish him off, but for the valor of his Kingsguards, who broke away from Robert's men. Ser Oswell Whent flung himself from his horse and tackled Robert to the ground, distracting him entirely while Ser Arthur Dayne dragged his king's unconscious body onto his horse. Ser Oswell died moments later when Robert crushed his helm under his hammer, but he had bought the time Ser Arthur Dayne needed to sound the retreat. Long training served the exiles well as they cut their way out of the melee and regrouped around the Sword of the Morning, who began to lead them out of the battle and leave the sellswords and the Myrish to their fates.

_After those Targaryen loyalists who could make their way out of the melee did so, Ser Arthur Dayne immediately ordered a full retreat to Myr. By this time, Eddard Stark and Jaime Lannister had managed to regroup their respective horsemen after breaking the Stormcrows and the Long Lances, and they quickly set out in pursuit._

_The running battle that ensued would eventually enter into the hagiographies of both the Sunset Company and the Exile Prince . . ._

"Reform! Reform!" Eddard chanted as the Western knights and the Northern men-at-arms eddied around him. The last counter-charge that Ser Arthur Dayne had led against them had broken their cohesion and he and Ser Jaime had to spend valuable minutes rallying them back into ranks.

Rhaegar was getting away, Gods curse him! Eddard and Jaime had pursued the exiles for at least four miles now, snapping at their column's heels like wolves at an elk, but the Sword of the Morning was as war-wise as he was valiant and not only was he holding the column together, but he was steadily pulling it away from the pursuit. Eddard snarled, roaring at his cavalry to get themselves in order. The man whose madness had killed his father, murdered his sister, crippled his brother, and exiled him from the North was so close that Eddard could almost feel the murderer's throat under his fingers, but mile by mile he was slipping out of Eddard's grasp.

At last the Northern riders reformed their ranks, Arnolf Karstark waving his axe from the head of his wing and Ser Wendel Manderly brandishing his sword at the head of his four remaining knights. The exiles were dying, but they were paving their road to the Seven Hells with the corpses of good men.

A quick glance over towards the Westermen showed that Jaime had rallied his knights into a formation and was gesturing readiness to attack; Eddard raised his sword and lowered it towards the column sheltering the man he hated more than any other in the world. "Advance!" he bellowed, and the knights of the West and the horsemen of the North spurred their already foaming horses to a clumsy trot. Eddard knew that he was killing the horses of a good third of the company's cavalry, but the effort had to be made. _One more,_ he thought brutally, _one more attack and we have them. They can't keep this up forever. Please, gods of my fathers._

As the company's cavalry closed to within a hundred and fifty yards of the exiles a trumpeter sounded his instrument and the thin rank of infantry parted to make way for a column of knights, led by a figure whose white cloak and armor were liberally spattered with gore. Eddard's lip curled to bare his teeth behind his visor. He had admired Ser Arthur Dayne; what young man of his age had not? But the man had helped Rhaegar Targaryen kidnap and rape his sister and so he had to die. What was more, for him to continue in the service of a madman brought shame upon his knighthood and dishonored his house; or so Eddard had heard the few Reacher knights who had joined them say, and he presumed that they knew what they were talking about. For him the mere fact that Dayne served the Targaryen was reason enough for deadly feud.

The exile knights shook out from column into line and trotted forward; they had no lances left, but each of them had a sword, axe, mace, or war hammer in his fist and slanted back to rest against his pauldron. Eddard growled to himself, stood in his stirrups, and raised his sword. "CHARGE!" he bellowed, leaning forward and spurring his horse into a canter. "LYANNA!"

"LYANNA!" the Northern horsemen howled back as they spurred their horses forward into a careening charge, heedless of the fact that their horses were foaming their lungs out. Beside them the Westermen charged as well, so that the world was full of the thunder of hooves, and then the two bodies of cavalry collided.

And as the exile knights and his Northmen savaged each other, Eddard Stark learned first-hand why Ser Arthur Dayne was a legend.

The Sword of the Morning's first blow shook Eddard's shield and drove it back into his shoulder. The second, flowing out of the first like a snake twisting through grass, skidded off the crown of Eddard's basinet with enough force to make his ears ring. Eddard managed to hurl a blow with his broad-bladed arming sword, but Dayne's own arming sword (Dawn, too long and too heavy to be wielded with one hand, was strapped to his back) slapped it aside and the counter-cut that he launched at Eddard's visor cut through the soft iron rim of Eddard's shield and bit into the wood beneath. With a strength that was all the more terrifying for being so casual the Sword of the Morning jerked his blade free and brought around in a cut that cracked Eddard's shield across and nearly broke his arm through the vambrace. Eddard launched a desperate thrust at the facial slot in Dayne's barbute helm, but a combination dodge and cross-parry knocked Eddard's sword off-line and the return cut dented Eddard's basinet and knocked him half out of the saddle. The whole series of blows took no longer than forty-five seconds.

Eddard would have died there, if Dayne had not been entirely distracted by Jaime Lannister ramming his horse into Dayne's and launching a thrust at his face.

Ser Arthur managed to slap the thrust aside and bring his horse back under control, but the Young Lion pressed him hard for a long series of seconds, enough for Eddard to reseat himself and shake some of the stars out his eyes. By the time Ser Arthur managed to interrupt Jaime's rain of blows, Eddard was on his other side and hammering away at him.

Any man but Arthur Dayne would have died there, beset on two sides by experienced foes, but Arthur Dayne had not earned his title and his white cloak by virtue of his name alone. Coolly he parried the storm of swords until he saw an opening. Quick as a frog's tongue taking a fly, his sword licked out and opened the neck of Jaime's horse, which collapsed away and died. Without pausing for an instant, _knowing_ that his blow had struck home, Dayne turned in the saddle and threw a thrust at Eddard's visor, disregarding the fact that Eddard's arming sword was descending on his left wrist.

The point of Dayne's arming sword, forged narrow and sharp as a bodkin for exactly this purpose, tore through one of the breathing-slits in the bottom of Eddard's visor and gouged a furrow down his cheek even as Eddard's arming sword (like most Northern weapons a generation or two behind their Southron counterparts and so broader in the blade and with a less acute point) struck Dayne's left wrist and broke it through the gauntlet. In the next instant, with Eddard reeling away in pain and shock and Dayne ripping his sword free of Eddard's visor, Jaime hurdled his dead horse, half-swording his blade, and rammed the point of his sword through the leaf-mail skirt protecting Dayne's hip. A frantic blow downwards and to the right left a long dent in Lannister's sallet helm and hammered him to his knees, but Dayne knew it was time to leave. He had done all he could for his king; he just had to hope it was enough. "Fall back!" he shouted hoarsely, waving his sword in a circle above his head. "Fall back!"

Eddard knocked his visor upward, spraying blood from his torn cheek. He saw Arthur Dayne turn his back and put the spurs to his horse, but to no avail. With a despairing neigh his horse foundered, with only horseman's reflexes getting Eddard clear of the saddle and saving him from a broken leg. As Eddard staggered up and looked around, what he saw made him curse the gods. The Western knights and the Northern cavalry were in little better state than he and Jaime; from what he could see barely two-thirds of the men they had started the pursuit with were still mounted and fit to fight and all of them looked as blown as their horses. As he watched Ser Wendel Manderly slumped over the neck of his horse and slid to the ground, utterly exhausted.

And across the field the exiles were getting away! Rhaegar was getting away! Eddard shook his sword and raged almost incoherently, but he knew he could do nothing more. In the final paroxysm of his rage he rammed his sword into the earth and, scowling, called an end to the pursuit. He managed to turn around and walk about ten feet before the battle-rage drained out of him and his legs collapsed underneath him, putting him face down in the churned earth.

_The Battle of Tara is an interesting case. Tactically and operationally, it was a crushing victory, destroying Myr's primary field army and incapacitating its best commander for the foreseeable future. Strategically, however, the honors were more nearly even. Rhaegar Targaryen may have been wounded, but he still lived, thus keeping victory as far out of the Sunset Company's reach after the battle as it had been before. Furthermore, the Sunset Company had suffered significant casualties. Leobald Tallhart, Ser Clifford Swann, Ser Tygett Lannister, Ser Elys Westerling ,and a score of other knights and minor lords were killed in the battle, while the running battle of the pursuit claimed the lives of Ethan Glover, Ser Mark Ryswell, Ser Rupert Brax, and fully a quarter of the Western knights and Northern cavalrymen, as well as many of their horses. In addition to the aristocrats, almost five hundred of the Westerosi infantry were killed outright, as were about three times as many freedmen. The number of wounded who later died of their injuries is probably comparable to those who died in the heat of the action._

_But if the Sunset Company's casualties had been significant, the exiles' losses had been devastating. Oswell Whent, Alliser Thorne, Jaremy Rykker, Lothor Brune, Ardrian Celtigar, Guncer Sunglass, and Gyles Rosby were all killed in the battle or the pursuit, as well as one in three of the other knights and lords among the exiles and many of their infantrymen. Some of these men were not killed during the actual fighting, but had simply fallen behind during the retreat. As they were unable to pay ransom, even if the Sunset Company were willing to take them prisoner, they were killed out of hand. In a single campaign, Rhaegar Targaryen's reputation in Myr was badly dented and his army all but crippled, while the repute of the Sunset Company soared to new heights._

_The consequences arose soon after . . ._

\- _Chasing Dragons: The Sunset Company Reexamined_ by Maester Hendricus, published 1539 AC 


	21. Chapter 21: Marching On

**Author Note: Trigger warning for mentions of sexual assault in the last part of this chapter. Medieval warfare ain't pretty.**

Eddard strode into Robert's tent to find Robert sitting in a chair naked to the waist with a similarly half-naked woman sitting on his lap and the pair of them kissing deeply. Eddard paused for a moment and then cleared his voice emphatically; this was not the first time he had had to interrupt Robert in the midst of a revel.

Robert broke free of his woman's lips and cast a jaundiced look at his foster-brother. "Do you mind?" he said in an oddly hushed voice. "Only I'm somewhat occupied, as you might have noticed." The woman sitting on his lap giggled.

Eddard returned Robert's look with a patient stare. "I'm afraid it can't wait," he replied. "And it's the sort of thing that needs your _undivided_ attention." He flicked a glance at the woman.

Robert sighed gustily. "Alright then, if you insist," he said sullenly, pushing the woman off his lap. "Perhaps tonight, love," he said to the woman with a kiss to the inside of her wrist. The woman sighed, threw on a shirt and swept a robe around herself, and swept past Eddard with a brief, scorching look. Eddard turned to watch her go, and then turned back to Robert and raised an eyebrow. "I swore revenge, Ned, not chastity," Robert said defensively. "If it makes you feel any better, Alaesa's the only woman I've had since Pentos." He sighed. "Whatever you do, please don't shout," he begged. "That bloody bat tackled me from horseback and hit my helmet with his; I have the most ungodly headache."

Eddard blinked, and then threw his head back and laughed as he hadn't laughed since the company sailed from King's Landing. "You, restrict yourself to only one woman?" he demanded jokingly between chortles. "Pull the other leg, there's bells on it. Or do you think I've forgotten how you had one woman in the Eyrie, one in the Bloody Gate, one in Gulltown, and one in Runestone, all thinking they were the only woman in your life?"

Robert winced and held his hands to his head. "Weren't those the days," he said with a wan smile. "But it's true. Ask young Dick Horpe if you don't believe your own foster-brother."

Eddard tilted his head and put a quizzical expression on his face. "Are you feeling quite well?" he said. "This _is_ the east, after all; you never know what strange diseases you might catch."

"Only disease I've caught is something chivalric," Robert said, putting a shirt on over his heavily muscled torso and motioning Eddard to a chair. "Have I told you about this one pleasure school my lads found when we were conquering Pentos?"

Eddard shook his head. "I did hear about it from the Greatjon, who heard from Ser Brus Buckler," he said. "According to him it was . . . bad."

"Bad enough that three or four of the women we pulled out of that bloody hole killed themselves afterwards," Robert said morosely. "Couldn't live with what had happened to them." He sat down again, his normally open face somber. "After that," he continued, "I couldn't help but think how many of the whores I've had went through something like that. Didn't help when I found out that about one in three of them had been kidnapped." _Like Lyanna_ hung in the air unsaid. "So I kept myself to myself, until Alaesa jumped into my bed and said a liberator deserved to be rewarded appropriately." He shrugged. "She's nice," he said. "Not just in bed, either. We talk."

Eddard blinked. Robert hadn't been the sort to get introspective with his women; the order of the day had been wine, song, and pleasure. "What do you talk about?" he asked curiously.

"Why we're here," Robert said, pouring wine for them both. "Why we want Rhaegar's head on a plate. What we plan to do after we've gotten it. What that might mean for everyone else." Robert looked up at Eddard. "Alaesa was born into slavery, she said. Her mother was a housekeeper, her father could be any one of about five or six men including their master and all his sons. She ended up here when her master gave her as a gift to a guest who complimented her; some magister or other from Ceralia. She never got to properly say goodbye to her mother." Robert's face was set. "If nothing else, what we're doing here will put a stop to that, by the gods."

Eddard nodded. "We've made a decent start, anyway," he said. "Ceralia has fallen."

Robert leaned forward. "How?" he asked. "The slaves revolt?"

"As soon as Lyn Corbray showed up at the gates with the news that we had won here," Eddard answered with a nod. "The slaves revolted that night, and Lyn woke up to see half the city in flames and the Governor's guards fighting the slaves for the other half. So he had the Pioneers with him break down the gates and pitched in. He sent word of his victory and the Governor of the North's head in a bag."

"Good for Lyn," Robert said, his voice filled with satisfaction. "We get any volunteers from the slaves in Ceralia?"

"Lyn also sent back four hundred and twenty-nine fit men of military age who've taken the star," Eddard replied. "Some from Ceralia, others from the surrounding countryside. They've been mustered in and taken in hand."

"I wish the Blackfish joy of them," Robert said, drinking deep. "Did Lyn happen to say whether there was anything left of Ceralia but a pile of ash?"

"His message didn't say one way or the other," Eddard said with a sip of his wine. "Either way, we can't linger too long. We need to strike while the iron's hot and put Rhaegar in the ground or on a gibbet for good."

"That eager to cross swords with Ser Arthur Dayne again, Ned?" Robert asked with a crooked smile. "Last time didn't go so well for you."

Eddard brushed a finger against the line of stitches along his cheek. "With the gods' help, I can handle Ser Arthur Dayne," he said, disregarding the chill that ran down his spine at the memory of that blend of lightning speed and massive strength.

"Not without improving your sword-craft, you can't," Robert said seriously. "Ned, you're as much my brother as Stannis is; more so in most ways. I won't have you die because you weren't enough of a swordsman to tackle Ser Arthur Dayne. You're good, but you're not a master. Become one; that's an order from your Captain-General."

Eddard nodded formally. "As you command, my lord," he said. Straightening, he went on. "If we can get those of our wounded too wounded to march or fight effectively under roofs in Ceralia, we should be able to march on Myr within a few days; Septon Jonothor tells me that his men are down to the last few-score bodies to bury. After that, we should be able to march to Myr in a sennight or so, depending on how well the freedmen shake down on the march. Ser Brynden's scavenged as much armor and as many weapons as he can from the battlefield; we actually have enough for every man to have at least a gambeson and a weapon of some kind. As far as actual formations goes, the freedmen can make up about eighteen hundred spearmen and twenty-three hundred crossbowmen; the crossbowmen only have about ten bolts apiece, though. We've got three sennights worth of food on hand, and two sennights' forage."

Robert winced. "Only two?" he asked. Forage was essential if they were to keep their horses in fit condition to fight. Military horses ate a _lot_; to stay in prime condition, at least part of their diet had to be grain or oats as well. Simple grass wouldn't cut it.

Eddard shrugged. "We'd have less if we hadn't lost so many horses during the pursuit," he pointed out. "We can stretch it a little if we restrict the draught animals to grazing, but that has its own problems." Grazing didn't just take time; it took _space_ as well, unless you wanted to replace the grass with mud. "Forbye, only about one in four of the Northern horse and the Western knights will be able to fight a-horse until we get remounts. I confess to be at a loss as to how we'll acquire those except by natural increase."

Destriers and coursers were, for the most part, very specialized animals; destriers literally had no other purpose than to carry an armored knight into battle. Not only were they bred to the task, they were also trained to it, so that a knight's warhorse was as dangerous an opponent as the knight was. As such, destriers and coursers of the sort that knights required only tended to be produced in regions that produced knights or similar armored horsemen. Essos made fine horses, but they weren't trained or bred to carry a knight into battle. Even Dothraki chargers, the finest horses in the East, would not necessarily suffice as a knight's steed.

"That can wait until after we take Myr," Robert said finally. "Not like cavalry will be much use in a siege, anyway, unless you can find a horse that can leap a city wall." He sat back in his chair. "How's Ser Brynden doing with the freedmen?"

Eddard smiled. "Do you know, I really think he's enjoying himself."

XXX

"Left, left-right-left! _Oh for fuck's sake_ Company, halt!" The sergeant in charge of drilling this particular lot of freedmen darted into the marching phalanx and grabbed a freedman in the second rank by the shoulders. "For gods' sake, man, do you not know your right from your left?!" he roared in the man's face.

The freedman stared at him with a look of mild terror. "No, lord," he finally choked out.

The sergeant blinked, and then leaned to one side to face the phalanx in general. "Who else doesn't know their right from their left?" he demanded, and felt his heart sink to see how many hands went up. "Warrior's hairy balls," he said softly to himself, turning back to the freedman he was still holding by the shoulders. "_This_ is your front," he yelled, buffeting the freedman on the chest, "and _this _is your rear!" buffeting him on the back. Looking down at the freedman's feet, he continued with "_this_ is your right," stomping (lightly) on the freedman's toes, "and _this_ is your left! Teach your mates tonight!" Stepping back out of the ranks, the sergeant swept the freedmen with a hawk-like stare. "If you can't march, you can't keep formation!" he roared. "If you can't keep formation, you can't fight! If you can't fight, then you die! So you will learn to march, in step! Company! Forward, march! Left, left, left-right-left!"

Sitting on his horse at the edge of the drill field just outside the main encampment, Brynden grinned as he watched the sergeant march his freedmen around the circuit of the field, seeming to propel them along by sheer lung-power. He remembered having to learn to keep formation on horseback, with a scarred old knight who had fought in the Blackfyre Rebellion roaring at him to "keep yer bloody horse in hand there, Tully, and dinnae let him go wanderin' over all creation!" That knight was long years dead now, having fallen off his horse after a long night's reveling at The Slippery Fish and broken his neck, but Brynden knew that he was nodding approval from the Warrior's halls. _This_ was how one made a group of individuals into an army.

There were currently three companies of freedmen marching around the drill field, getting the hang of marching in step. Two more companies, faster learners, were learning to maneuver on one half of the field. One was doing a credible job of "on center right wheel", while another was making a dreadful hash of "from column form line by sections from the right"; their sergeant was purple in the face and swearing fantastically as he waded into the mess to sort them out. The other half of the field was a forest of pells, man-high wooden posts at which freedmen were practicing with sword and spear. Some were simply swinging or thrusting by rote, others were bobbing and weaving around the post, cutting and thrusting enthusiastically. Sergeants roamed through the pells, roaring out corrections and encouragement richly flavored with profanity.

In short, the freedmen were becoming soldiers. It was taking a lot of time and work, and there were more than a few sprains, broken bones, and lacerations among the freedmen and a few cases of strained vocal cords and one near-aneurysm among the sergeants, but give it another few months and Brynden would take them against any comparable force of infantry in the east. Because they _wanted_ to kill.

Brynden had been a knight long enough to know that the common man's capacity for violence was rather limited. Most men, faced with a situation that demands that they confront a complete stranger, will restrict themselves to shouting and gesticulation, with maybe a punch or two thrown if they were _extremely_ upset. If they were inebriated, then more punches would be thrown, and maybe the knives would come out if the stranger was a horse-coper or a foreigner or a Dornishman or belonged to some other group that people distrusted or despised on principle, but even then outright murder was rare. As a general rule, the ability to kill a complete stranger in cold blood was a talent so rare that it had to be instilled by rigorous training; that level of training was what set knights and men-at-arms apart from the common run of men.

The freedmen, however, had no such qualms when it came to slavers; they had proved as much at Tara. What they really needed to learn was how to do it properly. Almost half of the freedmen who had fought at Tara had been killed or mortally wounded, and many others had been wounded badly enough that they could no longer march or fight. Simple fanaticism wasn't enough; if the freedmen wanted to have their revenge, they would have to become soldiers.

Brynden just hoped that the new volunteers would learn quickly. Robert had given orders that the company was to march for Myr city by the end of the sennight.

XXX

Ser Arthur Dayne glanced up as the door opened; it was not yet meal-time and he had given _strict orders_ that the king was not to be disturbed. His hand tightened on the hilt of the sword lying across his lap and his legs curled underneath his chair but before he sprang into action he recognized Magister Rahtheon, the king's good-father.

"How come you here?" he asked almost rudely; the pain in his splinted wrist and bandaged thigh made him short-tempered and he distinctly remembered telling Barristan that Rahtheon was not to be admitted.

"My daughter prevailed upon Ser Barristan to let me in," Rahtheon said in his smooth voice that put Arthur in mind of a hedge-maester such as had visited the town at the foot of Starfall castle. "How is the king?"

It was the simple concern in the magister's voice that kept Arthur from telling him it was not his concern. He turned towards the bed. "Much as you see him," he said, his voice heavy with repressed sorrow and mastered fear.

Rhaegar Targaryen, uncrowned King of Myr and true King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, lay on the bed, motionless except for the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. His eyes were closed and his hands folded on his chest, but his eyes roamed under their lids and his hands occasionally trembled where they lay. Rhaegar had always been lean, but two sennights on no greater nourishment than thick broth and tea was wasting his muscles. Already his face looked too much like that of a cadaver.

Rahtheon stood silently for a long moment before he turned back to Arthur. "Will he recover?" he asked, the directness of his voice almost entirely masking the tinge of doubt.

Arthur shrugged. "That is in the hands of the gods," he said hollowly. "But the maesters are not confident. If he would remain awake for more than moments at a time it would be different, but he does not. Blows to the head such as he sustained are chancy things." Arthur didn't mention the fact that when Rhaegar did awaken he was anything but lucid; mostly he stared blankly at the ceiling but on occasion he ranted incoherently. Arthur feared little, but his king's condition made his bones seem to chill.

Rahtheon sighed gustily and drew up a stool. "Well, shit," he said disgustedly. "So much for that idea." At Arthur's cocked eyebrow he went on. "The Conclave is scheduled to debate a motion of no confidence in the king's ability to lead tomorrow," he explained. "I had hoped that he would be able to forestall the debate by appearing in person, but . . ." he gestured at the supine king.

Arthur clamped down on the fury in his veins. "The faint-hearted, treacherous dogs," he said savagely. "Can you not prevent them?"

Rahtheon held up his hands. "If it were up to me, I would stop them in a heartbeat, but it's not up to me. My faction is only one of four or five on the Conclave and since news of the battle reached us it has quickly become the smallest one. The simple fact, as the Conclave sees it, is that the king is solely at fault for a war that we are currently losing, at a cost of just over six thousand lives and hundreds of thousands of florins in lost and destroyed property. The easiest way to end the war, or so they will say, will be to accede to the Baratheon's demand that the king be turned over to him."

Arthur looked up, and Rahtheon quailed at the deadly anger in his eyes. "Let them try, if they dare," the Sword of the Morning said harshly, his hand tight upon his sword-hilt. "_I will festoon the streets of this city with their guts_."

"I doubt it not, ser knight, but can you do as much to the whole city?" Rahtheon asked, mastering the fear that the Andal knight had put in him; he had not restored his family's fortune and risen to the first rank of the Conclave without learning to keep his countenance in the face of peril. "Your army is destroyed; your own men are reduced to perhaps a half or a third of their former strength. There are almost seventy-five thousand free men and women in this city; do you truly think that you can kill enough of them to cow the rest into obedience before they pull you down? Already my people bring me word that the common people of this city are considering storming this manse and throwing the survivors to the Baratheon in hopes that he will leave the city in peace. I have seen what happens when a bear is faced with a horde of dogs in the fighting pits of Meereen, ser knight, and let me tell you; nine times in ten the bear gets eaten." Rahtheon spread his hands. "We find ourselves in the position of the bear, ser knight. We can stand and fight, and almost certainly die, or we can escape and live to fight another day."

Arthur glared at the magister, passion warring with logic in his brain, and finally leaned back in his chair, his anger dimming as he looked at his prostrate king. "Tell Ser Barristan, on my authority, that he is to make preparations to defend this place against attack," he said, his voice still hard. "And pass word to Ser Gyles Rambton that he is to hold his ships in instant readiness to sail; if we have to fight our way out of the city, I would rather we not be vexed by lack of stores or suchlike." He looked back up at the magister. "Do all you can with the Conclave, my lord," he said seriously. "The future of the kingdom depends on it."

Rahtheon stood and bowed. "All that my might and craft can do, I shall, for my daughter's sake and that of my grandchild" he said. At Arthur's cocked eyebrow he went on. "My daughter has suspected for the past moon and more that she is pregnant, but in the past sennight she has become certain." He crossed to Ser Arthur and held out his hand. "Praela is my only heir, ser knight," he said, his voice deadly serious. "Her brother died in infancy and her mother followed him into the grave from grief. The only hope of my line is in my daughter and the child beneath her heart. Whatever you do to secure the future of House Targaryen, you have my aid, to my last copper and my last breath. The house you swore fealty to is my house now, by the bond between your king and my daughter, and I will not permit it to fail."

Ser Arthur rose. "Nor shall I," the Sword of the Morning said grimly. "Not while I have the strength to slay its enemies." And tucking his sword under his left arm he clasped forearms with the magister as with a brother.

XXX

In close-order formation, each infantryman occupied three square feet of space. A mounted cavalryman occupied twice as much frontage and three times as much depth, because horses are so large. If the eleven hundred cavalry and six thousand, nine hundred infantry of the Sunset Company were arrayed in a single file line, they would stretch almost _six miles_ along the Great North Road that linked Myr city to its northern territories. However, such a single file line would be impractical, to say the least, and so with the fighting men of the company arrayed in column of fours and with flank guards, advance scouts, and rearguard deployed around the column, the fighting men of the Sunset Company were compacted down to just over a full mile of road-space. This, of course, did not include either the baggage train or the great cloud of camp followers that trailed the company like the tail of a comet.

And there were other factors that operated on the length of the column. Every day during the three sennights that the company took to march from Tara and Ceralia to Myr city, parties of cavalrymen and mounted infantrymen left the main body of the company to range on either side of the line of march, seeking the rich estates that lined one of the three best roads in Myr. Guided by former slaves who in some cases had escaped from those same estates only days before, they generally found them, although they struck any estate or farm they happened across; the Sunset Company did not discriminate between targets.

When the estates were found, several things happened. First, any resistance was overcome; overseers, guards, and any men of the house who were foolish enough to hold onto a weapon or make any threatening moves were cut down by veterans of the great battle of Tara, against whom they had about as much chance of victory as a lady's lapdog would have against a direwolf. Second, every slave still held in bondage was freed in a cacophony of jubilation as every chain was broken and every shackle struck off. Third, the estate or farm was systematically pillaged. This could be a major operation; even the small farms of the few freeholding yeomen of the Myrish countryside were prosperous on a scale rarely seen in Westeros. The fat black earth of the Myrish heartlands was as fertile as any soil in Westeros, and if Westeros had enjoyed years of peace since the last of the Blackfyre rebellions, it was longer still since grim-visaged War had visited the heartlands of Myr with sword and torch; the fighting between Myr and its sister cities was confined to the borderlands, and while the Dothraki had never heard the story of the goose that laid the golden eggs, they would have instantly recognized the sense behind it. As a result, even the meanest yeoman's cottage was well-furnished by Westerosi standards, and the barns and granaries were filled with grain; the war had so disrupted the usual system of transport, with Rhaegar's army requisitioning carts and wagons to carry supplies, that the grain had not been transported to market.

In addition to all the foodstuffs they could carry, the Westerosi swept up any coin or loose valuables they could find; if there were any survivors from the capture of the estate, they were questioned ruthlessly about where their wealth was hidden, often with torture. This, of course, presumed that the newly freed ex-slaves had not killed the survivors already, which they usually did. The officers commanding the raiding parties did their best to prevent any female captives from being raped, on the orders of their Captain-General, but they could not be everywhere at once and many of them simply ignored the screams on the grounds that they had more important things to be getting on with, like organizing transport for the spoils that would feed the company and enrich both their men and the general coffers of the company.

At last, after everything that could be carried away had been stowed and loaded and the freedmen were ready to march, the torches were lit. The cottages of the yeomen were generally spared, although the furniture was almost always smashed, but every manse that received a visit from the Sunset Company's raiders was burned, either by the raiders themselves or by the freedmen. In bringing freedom and justice to Myr, the Sunset Company left a trail of death and ruin, marked by pillars of smoke from manses put to the torch.

Word of their coming preceded them, as these things do, and many Myrish chose not to await their arrival. Taking whatever valuables and heirlooms they could carry on their backs, their horses, or in a cart, they took to the road and ran for Myr city, constantly looking over their shoulders for the cloud of dust that would herald the outriders of the horde that had descended on them. These refugees, augmented by those who had actually endured the Andals' visitations and either escaped or been let loose, streamed into Myr city by the hundreds every day, each bearing their own tale of woe and anguish, and their stories mingled and conflated until many-tongued Rumor flew through the city. The Andals were freeing and arming every slave, even the women and children. The Andal priests had declared a holy war against the very institution of slavery, and were urging the utter destruction not just of Myr, but of every Free City that did not immediately free their slaves. The Andals' chieftain was a stag-headed giant who exulted in rape and slaughter and laughed as he slew; his chief lieutenant was a pelt-wearing barbarian from the farthest northland who ate the hearts of his enemies and could transform into a great man-wolf. The armed slaves had sworn a blood-oath by dark gods that they would not leave a freeborn throat uncut or a freeborn maidenhead untorn when they captured Myr.

The rumors grew ever more fantastic and ever more hysterical as the days passed and the flow of refugees from the countryside continued unabated. The common people of Myr muttered in their taverns and bawdyhouses, the magisters sealed themselves in their manses, priests held forth on street corners about the savagery of the Andals and the judgment of the gods that rode with them, the Conclave debated, the guards on the walls watched for the gleam of sunlight on spearheads that would herald the coming of the enemy, and the slaves whispered in their barracks, laying their own plans against the advent of freedom. 


	22. Chapter 22: Red Viper Rising

**Meanwhile, in Westeros . . .**

_King's Landing would rejoice at the birth of King Stannis' firstborn son Prince Lyonel, who received the title Prince of Dragonstone, and would quickly gain the additional title of the Black Prince in homage to the Baratheon coloring he inherited from his father._

_The event, like the births of all his children, would see displays of largess otherwise unheard of from the king as the coffers of the Red Keep opened to provide food and merriment for the smallfolk of the capital; and even the public works of the crownroads and the reclamation of Rhaenrya's Hill would be halted as public holiday was declared by the Grim Stag._

_But the jubilation of the people and king would prove short-lived, as it would be revealed than on the very day of the Black Prince's birth, Oberyn Martell would declare that his brother Doran's failure to avenge the murder of their kin and defend the honor of House Nymerios Martell, had forfeited his right to sit as head of their house. As such Prince Oberyn would declare himself the one rightful Prince of Dorne and call for the Dornish to flock to his host; to both install him in Sunspear and restore the independence of the Dornish Principality._

_In one audacious move Oberyn Martell would ignite the first fire that would test the fledgling Baratheon Dynasty, and the first of the many wars of Lyonel the Magnificent's life._

_The Red Viper Rebellion had begun . . ._

Oberyn Martell mounted his favorite horse and rode to the top of the great dune overlooking his camp. Here, in the great desert between Sandstone and Hellholt, was the true soul of Dorne, and it was here where its truest men lived. Among the host that had answered his call the scorpions of the Qorgyles and the flames of the Ullers were most prominent, along with a bandera of three hundred men from the farming settlements along the banks of the Greenblood under his own banner of the sun-and-spear encircled by the red viper. Around the periphery of the main block of tents were men from the other houses of Dorne; pale mountaineers who had remembered honor, swarthy fishers and shore-dwellers from the coast, and even some townsmen from Planky Town or the shadow town at the base of Sunspear who had acknowledged their true prince.

The trumpets blared for silence and the assembled host before him quieted. Oberyn muttered a quick prayer for eloquence and began to orate. "Cousins," he began, pitching his voice to be heard even in the back of the host, although there were heralds to repeat his words. "Brothers and sisters of Dorne! Barely a year ago, our beloved princess, Elia of Martell, was savagely and inhumanly murdered along with her children. Men say it is unknown who committed this abominable deed, but all men know who the culprit is! It was Tywin Lannister who gave the command, it was Amory Lorch who stabbed Elia's daughter Rhaenys half a hundred times, and it was Gregor Clegane whom men call the Mountain who dashed out the brains of Elia's son Aegon before he raped and strangled her." There were murmurs through the host, and a few ululated their grief for the slain.

"We know this, as all men with eyes to see and ears to hear know," Oberyn continued. "And from that day to this, we have demanded justice for our murdered princess and her babes. By the blood wrongfully shed, by the horror visited on our beloved princess, we have demanded the vengeance that we are owed, by the laws of gods and men. And how have we been answered?" Oberyn allowed some of the anger boiling in his heart to seep into his voice. "Our demands for what we are rightfully due and owed have been met with naught but silence and insult! Tywin the Butcher lolls in Casterly Rock and revels in his wealth and his honors! Gregor the Mountain even now holds a place of honor as the sworn shield of the Butcher's son and heir! Amory Lorch is accounted as a trusty and well-beloved bannerman of the Butcher! And King Stannis, who owes us justice for our slain, takes the Butcher's daughter to his bed and calls her his queen, rutting with her in the same apartment where our princess's daughter was slaughtered!" Boos rose from the crowd, interspersed with cries of "Shame! Shame!" and "To the spears!"

"And while we are so insulted," Oberyn went on, now in the full grip of his rage, "our so-called prince does nothing! The blood and dishonor of our princess and her children, his own sister and niece and nephew, cries out from the earth for vengeance and he does nothing! He sits in the Tower of the Sun and weeps as a beaten whore weeps, while the ghosts of our defiled princess and her butchered children plead for justice from the Heavens!" Roars of disapproval rose from the host, but to Oberyn's relief they were all for Doran's sluggishness. This had been the most dangerous part; Tywin Lannister and his dogs were easy targets, but a ruling Prince less so.

He flung up his hand and the cries of "Shame!" and "Dishonor!" slowly stilled. "A prince who does not protect his people, and fails to avenge their deaths, is not a prince that deserves to rule us," he declared, his words striking the silence as thrown rocks against a board. _Gods be with me; I cannot turn back now . . ._ He stifled the regret he felt for his brother's wife, who was blameless in this affair; only with an iron heart could he say what he had to say next. "Here do I declare that Doran Martell the coward is deposed, and that I, Oberyn of the House of Nymeros Martell, trueborn and true son of the line of Nymeria, claim the title and throne of the Prince of Dorne. For my first act, I declare that Dorne withdraws her allegiance from King Stannis, who has ignored our demands for justice. For my second act, I declare war unrelenting on House Lannister." The swelling roar of acclaim was stilled, barely by his upraised hand. "I declare House Lannister, and all who swear them fealty, to be enemies of Dorne!" he proclaimed. "On the blood of my raped and murdered sister, and the graves of my slaughtered niece and butchered nephew, I swear that I shall give no peace and no mercy to House Lannister. I shall destroy them utterly, unto the last child, lay their castles in ruins, and put to the sword every man, woman, and child who bears the taint of Lannister blood, so that they shall be no more." Spears were being beaten on shields now, in a growing thunder that Oberyn had to shout over. "This I swear," he yelled, "with the Gods and all here as my witness! And I summon all true Dornishmen who love their country and the memory of Elia the Fair to my banner! Let all true Dornishmen declare their fealty, or perish with our enemies!"

The thunder of spear on shield rose to a crescendo, and the ululating war cries that had put fear in the armies of the northerners for generations out of mind split the heavens.

_The first target of the rebels was those noble houses that did not declare for Oberyn. Of these, the most prominent was House Yronwood, the most powerful of the Stony Dornish houses and the strongest noble house in all of Dorne after the Martells. Hoping to make a show of force by crushing these overmighty vassals, Oberyn led his forces out of the desert and into the foothills of the eastern Red Mountains, the heart of the Yronwoods' power. Weakened by desertions to Oberyn's cause and faced with overwhelming numbers, the Yronwoods were quickly faced with a crisis . . ._

Anders Yronwood brooded in his solar, glowering down at his family's lands from the tower window. It was ordinarily a restoring vista, with the stark beauty of the Red Mountains contrasting the fertile upland meadows that produced the bulk of the House's fighting-tail. On this occasion, however, it was anything but restorative. The columns of smoke rising to the sapphire sky saw to that.

_Damn Oberyn, _Anders thought bitterly, _damn him to the deepest hell._ The Red Viper had murdered his grandfather over the favors of the old man's paramour, while he was a guest, to boot. Oh, the official story was that Edgar Yronwood's wounds had festered, but there was no doubt in Anders' mind whatsoever that Oberyn had fought that duel with a poisoned blade, in blatant contravention of the dictates of chivalry. For the sake of peace, and for the sake of Prince Doran's regard, he had done his best to put the past behind him; Oberyn had been effectively exiled, after all. But the old imperative, ancient as the mountains, that blood demanded blood, still lurked in his heart.

And then this mad revolt. Anders had been both puzzled and more than a little indignant at Prince Doran's hesitation in seeking revenge for his sister and her children, but he had been patient. He knew Doran of old; the Prince of Dorne had never bolted his food when he could linger over it, and his mind was a labyrinth of schemes and counter-schemes. So Anders had consoled himself with the thought that whenever Doran did act, it would be well-considered, and the more complete for being thorough. But Oberyn had lost his reason, and as a result the people who looked to Anders for protection were being harried with fire and sword.

And Anders couldn't do anything to stop it. Even if none of his men had deserted to the Viper's standard, Yronwood didn't have the men to face down a host of the size that Oberyn commanded. And all his ravens to Sunspear seeking aid had gone unanswered; for all the good they had done, Anders might as well have eaten them.

There was another he could call on for aid though. The mere thought of it stung Anders' pride, but his pride would not shield his people. With a final glare at the columns of smoke that hung accusingly in the air, Anders strode away from the window, sat at his desk, and, bile in his throat, began to write.

_To His Grace, Stannis, the First of His Name of House Baratheon, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Defender of the Realm, greetings._

_As I am sure Your Grace is aware, some three sennights ago Oberyn Martell raised his banners in rebellion, declaring his intent to depose his brother Prince Doran, forswear Dorne's allegiance to the Iron Throne, and exterminate House Lannister. In this he has been joined by Houses Qorgyle and Uller, their bannermen, and various other forces throughout Dorne. Some, however, have remained loyal to their Prince and their King, and refused to join the revolt. I am proud to declare that my House is first among them. In response to my refusal to forswear my allegiance, the rebel has declared war upon me with the express intention of forcing my submission._

_I regret to report to Your Grace that I do not have the power to adequately defend my lands and my people against the rebel. My forces at this time consist in their entirety of one hundred knights, their squires, five hundred light horse, and seven hundred foot, of whom only half are regular men-at-arms. The best intelligence available to me places the rebel's strength at some three to four thousand men, among whom are some of the best light horse in all of Dorne._

_Over the past sennight I have dispatched every raven my maester has trained for Sunspear, pleading for Prince Doran's aid as is my right under my oath of fealty to him. My repeated pleas have been met only with continued silence. I must perforce conclude that Prince Doran is unable or unwilling to march against the rebel._

_Consequently I appeal to Your Grace for justice and protection, trusting that Your Grace will remember your oath to your people to defend them against all their enemies. I pray Your Grace to come to Dorne with sufficient power to suppress the rebel and restore the King's Peace in Dorne, in aid of which I pledge all the strength available to me. Should Your Grace do this, I shall pledge my fealty and my homage to Your Grace, to be your true and loyal servant against all Your Grace's enemies with all my power, for so long as the mountains endure._

_I pray Your Grace not take too long in answering this plea; we are in a most desperate case._

_I remain, in the meantime, Your Grace's humble and obedient servant,_

_Anders Yronwood, the Bloodroyal, Lord of Yronwood, and Warden of the Stone Way_

Anders neatly folded the letter, sealed it with his signet ring, and called for his maester. The raven flew north that very evening. Anders spent the rest of the night trying not to think too much about what his forefathers would have thought of him begging for help from a northerner, and a Baratheon descended from the Durrandons at that. He suspected that they wouldn't be very understanding.

_Lord Yronwood's letter found a receptive ear in King's Landing. Although the news of the rebellion had come as a shock to King Stannis and his Small Council, the young king proved both resilient and decisive. The marcher houses of the Reach and the Stormlands were immediately ordered onto a war footing, and orders went out for two royal hosts to gather. One, to be comprised primarily of Reachmen and Riverlanders, was to assemble at Highgarden and march down the Prince's Pass under the command of Mace Tyrell and Randyll Tarly. The other, composed of Stormlanders, Crownlanders, and Valemen, was to assemble at Summerhall and march down the Boneway under Stannis' personal command . An offer of ten thousand horse and foot by Tywin Lannister was turned down; as Roose Bolton put it, "The Dornish are people to befriend, kill, or leave well enough alone, but never to insult."_

_As these hosts would take some time to gather and march to the combat zone, time that the Yronwoods didn't have to spare, orders swiftly flew to Blackhaven, Grandview, Stonehelm and Crow's Nest, ordering the Dondarrions, the Grandisons, the Swanns, and the Morrigens to march down the Boneway at best speed and place themselves under Lord Yronwood's command. This unprecedented move of cooperation went off with surprisingly few hitches, although the combined marcher force did not pursue Oberyn's forces very aggressively, being content to guard the Yronwood lands and hold the Boneway open until the royal hosts arrived._

_A month later, Yronwood hosted another unprecedented event . . ._

All his life, Ser Cortnay Penrose had known that the Dornish were the enemy.

According to family legend, the first Penrose had been a scribe who had saved his master's life from a Dornish assassin. Penrose's had followed the Storm Kings to war on the Dornish Marches for centuries before the Conquest; after the Conquest they had followed the three-headed dragon of the Targaryens south behind Aegon the Conqueror and Daeron the Young Dragon. As a boy, Cortnay had dreamed of bettering the deeds of his ancestors in those old wars; of forcing the Boneway against the Wyls and the Yronwoods, of sweeping the banks of the Greenblood with sword and torch, of matching wits against raiding war-bands out of the deep deserts under the colors of the Ullers and the Qorgyles, of scaling the walls of Sunspear and storming the Tower of the Sun in the teeth of the Martell spears.

Never in all his days had he ever _dreamed_ that he would be a high officer in a royal army entering Dorne at the _invitation_ of the Dornish.

And yet here he was, the Lord Commander of the royal bodyguard, escorting a king into Dorne who had come at the request of a Dornish lord to fight other Dornish. If his forefathers who had made war on Dorne in those bygone days had lived to see the event, they would have died of shock. One or two of them might have had the presence of mind to gasp out warnings against treachery before they expired, but Cortnay doubted it.

Behind them the Dornish half of the Boneway was filled with royal troops. In the center were the infantry; archers and brigandine-coated spearmen from the Riverlands, mailed spearmen and archers from the Vale, billmen and archers from the Stormlands, and a block of six hundred spearmen from the Crownlands in breastplates and open-faced halfhelms under the black stag of the royal house. At either end of the column were the knights and freeriders of the army, the Valemen and Riverlanders at the rear and the Stormlanders and the Crownlanders at the front.

Normally, Stannis held a place in the column at the join between the vanguard cavalry and the infantry, surrounded by the Royal Order of the Storm; Cortnay refused to call it the Stormguard as some men did, out of a lifelong belief in calling things by their proper names. Today, however, Stannis had ridden ahead of the army to meet with Lord Yronwood, taking all twenty of the knights of the Order who had marched with the army with him; the other twelve had stayed in King's Landing to protect Queen Cersei and Prince Lyonel. As they neared the castle, Cortnay pursed his lips at the vista that greeted them; apparently the Red Viper's raiders had gotten quite close to the castle before being driven off by the arrival of the marchers who had been dispatched to Yronwood's aid. It said much for the rebels' numbers and prowess that they should so discomfit the second house of Dorne, inferior only to the Martells.

At the gates of the castle, under the shadow of its frowning towers, there waited a sight that Cortnay had dreamed of encountering across a stricken field in his youthful days; the Lord of Yronwood, the most powerful lord in all of Dorne bar one, mounted and armed and surrounded by his household men with his banner flying; a prize greater than any in Dorne save for a scion of the Martells, sure to yield gold, honor, and fame to any man who was knight enough to take or slay him. Cortnay had to remind himself that far from an enemy, Lord Anders was a fellow subject of the king who had been forced to beg for aid against a foe he could not defeat on his own. In a way he could almost feel sorry for him; no man liked to be a supplicant, much less a stiff-necked Dornishman.

As the royal party drew near and reined in, Lord Yronwood dismounted in a clatter of armor. Handing off his horse to a squire and stepping forward, he slowly bent the knee and bowed his head, while the knights of his household lowered their lances until the long points touched the ground in salute. Stannis, still young but already tall and looking almost as regal as Robert had ever done, also dismounted and walked forward until he stood before the Dornishman. "My lord," he said solemnly, "as you have asked, I have come. What would you have of me?"

"Justice, Your Grace," Lord Yronwood said hoarsely. "Justice for my murdered people, my slain men, and my devastated lands. Justice and the head of Oberyn Martell, who men call the Red Viper."

"Then justice you shall have," Stannis said, a note of iron sternness entering his voice. "Let all here witness: By my right of high justice in all of Westeros, I declare Oberyn Martell to be an outlaw, and an enemy of the Iron Throne. I denounce and attaint him, and command all leal men to do him such harm as they are able. In aid whereof, I myself shall lead the hunt for him, and may the gods defend the right."

Lord Yronwood drew his sword from where he knelt and held it before him, the point resting on the ground and his hands clasped about the hilt. "Here do I pledge my fealty and my allegiance to His Grace, Stannis of House Baratheon, King in Westeros," he said, his voice stronger now. "To him shall I give my service without reservation, offering my tax and my counsel in peace and my swords and my spears in war. His enemies are mine, as are his friends. Thus do I swear, binding me and my heirs after me, while the mountains endure."

"I hear and accept your oath, my lord," Stannis replied, "and in doing so bind myself to reward what is given; fealty with love, valor with honor, good service with good lordship. All who do harm to you do harm to me, and at their peril. Thus do I swear, binding me and my heirs after me, while the line of my House endures."

Lord Yronwood sheathed his sword, rose to his feet, and exchanged the kiss of peace with his monarch. Even then, Cortnay did not wholly relax until every man present shared bread and salt; old habits died hard, after all. Even later in the evening during the welcome feast in the castle hall when the wine came out and the Dornishmen drank to the health of King Stannis and his newborn son, Cortnay remained all too aware of where his sword and dagger hung on his belt.

_The arrival of royal forces at Yronwood forced Oberyn to withdraw to the headwaters of the River Scourge; although he commanded the largest single army in Dorne, Oberyn could not hope to face Stannis' army in open battle, especially not after it had been reinforced by Dornish royalists like Lord Yronwood. Nothing daunted, the Red Viper proceeded to move down the Scourge to the Greenblood, hoping to draw Stannis after him by threatening to capture Sunspear. Stannis wasted no time in setting out in pursuit, which was greatly aided by his securing the loyalty of House Jordayne thanks to the good offices of Ser Harold Jordayne, who had been in Stonehelm on business and enjoyed the distinction of being the first Dornish knight to swear fealty to Stannis during the Rebellion._

_In Sunspear, the Martells prepared for a siege. They did so under a significant handicap; Prince Doran had been in an unstable emotional state ever since the death of his beloved sister. The news that his brother had rebelled against him brought on what the medical profession at the time called severe melancholia and what modern medicine would term acute depression. As a result, the responsibility of undertaking defensive measures largely devolved on his wife, Princess-Consort Mellario, and the officers of his household. Fortunately for the Martells, Mellario rose to the occasion . . ._

"The last of the outrider parties has returned, my lady," Ricasso said, consulting the scroll in his hand and thanking the gods for the opportunity to get out of the sun; this inner chamber of the Tower of the Sun was blessedly dark and cool after the glaring heat of late summer in southern Dorne."The food they have gathered has been dispatched to the castle granary, and the able-bodied men and women of military age are being entered onto the levy rolls and provided weapons and armor. All that remains is to fire that part of the shadow city that lies outside the Winding Walls and we will have done all we can to prepare."

Mellario, Princess Consort of Dorne, and it's effective ruler thanks to the incapacitation of its Prince, nodded pensively. "Order Ser Manfrey to make preparations to do so, but to wait until the rebels are within sight of the walls before burning the city," she commanded. "It would be ill-done if we destroyed our people's homes and livelihoods unnecessarily."

Ricasso blinked. "My lady believes that King Stannis may defeat the rebel?"

"In war, I am told, anything is possible," Mellario replied. "At the very least, Stannis appears to have rather more men than my good-brother does."

"Perhaps so, my lady, but numbers are not everything in war," Ricasso replied; boldly perhaps, but he had grown old in House Martell's service. That sort of tenure gave you privileges. "Were it otherwise, Dorne would have fallen to the first Aegon and we would almost certainly not be here."

"Indeed," Mellario observed, her tone mildly frosty. "In the event that it comes to a siege, how do we stand to offer resistance?"

"I will need to review the final figures after today's totals are tallied," Ricasso answered, "but as of last report we have a thousand knights and men-at-arms in the city, along with twice as many levy infantry. We have provisions for three months at full rations and five at half rations. Our cisterns and wells are full, and at need we can boil seawater and condense the steam; it won't produce much, but it will produce some water at least."

"All our soldiers are loyal?" Mellario asked pointedly.

Ricasso spread his hands. "My lady, we can hardly expect a traitor to reveal themselves before they take action," he said. "However, the nature of the walls provides some safeguard against the most dangerous kind of treachery. Any traitor seeking to open a gate to the rebel would need to open all three portals of the Threefold Gate at the same time and hold them until the rebels managed to secure them. I trust my lady will share my skepticism that so perilous a scheme could be executed."

Mellario nodded. "I certainly admit that it would appear far-fetched," she allowed, "but still I must consider that even so chancy a plot might succeed." Left unsaid was the thought that no one had seriously contemplated that Oberyn would revolt against his brother.

Ricasso bowed. "Even in the event of such catastrophe, my lady, we would not be entirely undone," he assured her. The Sandship can be held by less than two hundred men, if they are brave and well-led, and Captain Hotah has vowed that in the event of treachery he will hold the Sandship against all comers with the household guardsmen."

Mellario smiled. "If Areo says so, then I believe him," she said simply, reminding Ricasso that the Princess Consort had known Hotah for years before she ever came to Dorne. "Is there more news of the rebel and the king?"

Ricasso shook his head. "None that can be considered reliable, my lady," he said regretfully. "As of our last reliable report, the rebels are still in the vicinity of Godsgrace attempting to subdue the Allyrions, and the king is advancing against them."

"Very well," Mellario said. "Thank you, Master Ricasso."

Ricasso hesitated, then bowed. "If I may ask, my lady . . ." he began.

"About the Prince?" Mellario asked sharply, her eyes glinting. Ricasso bowed lower. "He remains as he has been since news of the rebellion reached us," she said, her voice devoid of inflection. "Maester Caelotte is attending him to the best of his abilities, but he fears that the Prince's condition is tied in some way to the state of the rebellion; he hopes that a victory may result in some improvement."

Ricasso straightened and folded his hands in his sleeves. "Then I shall pray for the King's victory, my lady," he said calmly.

"Please do," Mellario said, her expression softening. "You may go, Master Ricasso."

Ricasso bowed and walked out of the room.

_As it happened, Mellario's preparations would prove unnecessary. Four days after the Threefold Gates were closed, a royal scouting party collided with a rebel scouting party a mile downriver from Godsgrace. Both commanders, thinking that they faced a much larger force than they truly did, immediately dispatched urgent requests for reinforcements . . ._

\- _Blood and Sand: The Red Viper Rebellion_ by Maester Coran, published 1745 AC


	23. Chapter 23: Flight and Ultimatum

In the captain's cabin of the _Conqueror's Blade_, flagship of the Royal Fleet, the chiefs of the Targaryen loyalists sat and took wine. The mood was subdued; only the day before they had been forced to cut their way out of a city that had been roused against them, and the toll of that fighting march to the docks, and the grinding battle to hold the mobs away from the docks where their ships were berthed, weighed on their souls. Magister Rahtheon still had a haunted look in his eyes; for a man who had rebuilt his family's fortunes from genteel poverty, the loss of wealth and position entailed by their flight was as harrowing as the prospect of being dismembered by the furious crowd. Ser Gyles Rambton, who as Lord Admiral was the de facto master of ships, and Ser Marq Grafton, who commanded the Gulltown squadrons, had only in the past hour lost the involuntary shaking in their fingers that had made writing and holding a full glass difficult. Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Barristan Selmy had concealed their own agitations ruthlessly, but they had both been grateful for the opportunity to get away from prying eyes and permit themselves to feel the fear that the mobs had struck in them. Arthur, for one, knew that there would be a special place in his nightmares for the surf-roar of ten thousand people driven mad by fear and rage, punctuated by the pounding chant of "Out! Out! Out! Out! Out!"

After a moment of silence, Arthur leaned forward. "My lords," he said formally, "before we begin, I must thank you all for the courage and prowess you showed during our most recent difficulty. As soon as we have the opportunity, we will need to provide a suitable reward to the men for their steadfastness, especially the sailors of the fleet. If they had not stood fast, we would not have been able to make good our escape."

"And what exactly do you mean to reward them with?" Marq asked sardonically. "Knighthoods all around? A knighthood is a fine thing to be sure, but you can't spend it on wine, women, and song, nor yet send it home to the family, and the men have yet to be paid this month. And if we have more than three hundred gold dragons between us, I'll eat my boots."

"We are not utterly destitute," Rahtheon replied. "The majority of my assets may have been lost in Myr, but I have properties and accounts in the other Free Cities. We will not starve, at least."

"All well and good," Gyles replied, "but what do we do after we find our feet again? My lords, if the Usurper has followed us this far, he will not hesitate to follow us farther. And if Myr could not withstand him, do we truly think that Lys or Tyrosh can do so?"

"The Usurper has no fleet," said Barristan, "and Lys and Tyrosh are island cities. He may be able to storm Myr, but he cannot do as much to Lys or Tyrosh unless he finds some way to march an army across water."

"And would the Tyroshi or the Lyseni prove more resilient than we did?" Rahtheon asked. "I know them, ser knight, and the moment we become a greater liability than an asset, they will throw us to the Usurper as the Conclave did."

There was a moment of silence as all around the table acknowledged the truth of Rahtheon's words. The Tyroshi were the most martial of the Three Daughters, but they were raiders and slavers for the most part, not soldiers fit to face down the Sunset Company. And the Lyseni were brothel-keepers, not warriors; they hired sellswords to fight their wars, and the Sunset Company had demonstrated at Pentos and Tara that they could handle sellswords.

Arthur drummed his fingers on the table. "So if Tyrosh and Lys are not suitable," he said, "then we must look further afield." He turned to Rahtheon. "How stand your contacts and your affairs in Volantis, my lord?"

Rahtheon spread his hands. "Broad enough, among the merchant community," he said. "Less so among the Old Blood, who do not directly involve themselves in day-to-day business; they have people to do that for them. Their banks are less powerful and not as refined as the Iron Bank of Braavos, but they are sound enough that I have monies deposited in their vaults."

"Can Volantis stand against the Usurper, though?" Gyles asked.

"If any of the Free Cities can defeat the Usurper, Volantis can," Rahtheon replied. "Of all of Valyria's daughters they are the strongest on land, thanks to their control of the River Rhoyne and the fields it waters."

"I mislike it," Marq interjected. "In Myr, we had the strength to rule the city, however tenuous that rule may have been. In Volantis we will be a curiosity, and one without the strength to determine our fates. If the Old Blood decide to throw us to the Usurper, we will not be able to resist them anymore than we could the Myrish."

"It is that very strength that may prevent such ill-fortune," Arthur answered. "If the Volantenes are indeed strong enough to render us a minor power, they will almost certainly be strong enough to hold the Usurper at bay, especially for the next few years, at least." Arthur leaned forward. "My lords, even if the Usurper conquers Myr, which is not an outcome preordained, he will not be in a position to seriously challenge Volantis for some time. At the very least he will have to reduce Lys and Tyrosh, if not utterly subjugate them, and accomplishing that and repairing the damage enough to weld them into a single kingdom will take years, if I am any judge. Even if he demands that the Old Blood turn us out of the city, he will not be able to back up his threats with force until he can send an army from Myr to The Sorrows and not be threatened by invasions from his rear."

Gyles nodded. "I agree with Ser Arthur's logic," he said. "I say we sail for Volantis."

"We'll need to stop at Tyrosh or Lys, first," said Marq. "Sailing straight to Volantis will cut very close to the limit of our supplies, especially of water. One week without wind would be the death of us."

"We'll stop at Tyrosh," Arthur replied. "If we stopped at Lys we'd never get the men on board again." The chuckles that ran around the table at the thought of trying to enforce discipline among sailors and soldiers in Lys of all cities masked an undertone of unease. All commanders dreaded mutiny.

When all had filed out again, Gyles to the _Blade's_ quarterdeck, Marq to his own _Gulltown's Pride_, Rahtheon to his daughter's cabin to apprise her of the council's decision, and Barristan to Viserys' cabin, Arthur knelt beside the curtained bed that contained the comatose body of his king. He did not bother to speak; if Rhaegar could hear and understand, then he would have heard and understood all that the council had said. All that remained was to protect him. And if he died, as looked more likely with every day, then Arthur would protect his heir as fiercely as he had protected him, whether that heir was Viserys or a son born of Queen Praela.

He had sworn an oath.

XXX

Talaeron Arreos made for a decent exemplar of that category of humans titled "Myrish, young man, upper-class." He was well-educated in the skills that became a young aristocrat of his people, well-spoken, reasonably popular among his peers, and bade fair to make a worthy heir to his father's trading concern. He stood out from the mass of his peers in two respects. Firstly, he had a reputation for being able to keep his countenance even in extremity; a skill he had developed in order to better supplement his allowance by relieving his peers of theirs at cards. Secondly, he spoke the Common Tongue of the Andals more fluently than any of his peers; Common Tongue was widely known among the Myrish aristocracy for trade, but Talaeron was almost unique in that he knew it well enough to not only recite but also discuss poetry in it.

It was these two skills that resulted in his being chosen as the Conclave's ambassador to the Sunset Company.

His father hadn't even been able to object, as much as he would have wished to. The Arreos clan was relatively low-ranked among the magisters of Myr, which made the selection of Talaeron as an ambassador an even greater honor than it normally was. Of course, in this particular case the honor was decidedly a mixed one, given that it would place him within the power of the Sunset Company and their armed slaves, but inquiries had established that, as barbaric as the Andals were, they at least understood that an ambassador's person was inviolate. And if Talaeron could manage to claim hospitality, then even the most uncivilized Andal or the most rabid slave would think twice about doing him harm. Apparently among the Andals, a man who broke guest right, as they called it, would have serious cause to regret his breach of etiquette fervently and at length.

So when Talaeron was admitted to the tent of Lord Robert Baratheon, Captain-General of the Sunset Company, he was relieved to see bread, salt, and wine on the table off to one side and perturbed to see that the two men on either side of the Lord's chair, one golden-haired and handsomely severe with his gilded armor contrasted by a black cloak, and the other dark-haired and scowling in plain unburnished steel, held unsheathed longswords before them with the points resting between their feet. If he recalled his hurried lessons correctly, that meant that hospitality was not granted, but not yet denied either, and Baratheon was willing to be convinced one way or the other.

He swallowed his nervousness, set aside the way his ambassadorial finery was cut a touch too tightly for comfort, clicked his heels, and bowed shortly. "My lord Baratheon, I presume?" he asked in the neutrally polite tones that merchants and diplomats both had as their usual manner of speaking.

The man sitting in the Lord's chair nodded slowly. Talaeron had heard the rumors, of course, but the rumors, in this case, were only partially connected to reality. The Andal was a big man, of course, even seated, but not quite the towering ogre that rumor had painted. His head was quite normal, if proportionate to his size and decked with heavy, flowing black hair; Talaeron assumed that the antlered helmet resting at the top of the armor-stand to one side of the tent had given rise to the claim that he had a stag's head. The bright blue eyes were intelligent and piercing, hardly alight with lust for blood or carnal pleasure. His trousers, shirt, and doublet were plain, but they were clean, well-made, and perfectly respectable, the sort of thing you would expect any nobleman to wear and hardly the blood-matted furs of rumor. In all, Talaeron thought to himself, a man after all and hardly the monster of rumor. "I am he," the Andal said in a deep voice that could probably swell to a stunning roar at need. "Are you come from the Conclave?"

"I have the honor to be the Conclave's ambassador, my lord," Talaeron answered. "In proof of which, I present my credentials." He handed over the fine paper scroll, closed with the official seal of the Conclave and decked with the seals of all fifteen of the Conclave's members, which proved his status. Baratheon accepted it, broke the seal with a flick of his thumb, and glanced over its contents.

A minute later he rolled up the scroll and handed it off to the pimple-faced young man who was standing behind his chair. "Your credentials are accepted," he said. "What does the Conclave want?"

Talareon bowed. "The Conclave, my lord, wishes to ask what terms you will accept to bring an end to this war," he replied. "The Conclave wishes also to inform you that Rhaegar Targaryen and his followers have left the city bound for points unknown."

"The Rapist yet lives?" the dark-haired lord standing at Baratheon's right hand asked sharply.

Talaeron spread his hands. "I do not know to say yea or nay, my lord," he replied. "The Targaryen was not seen abroad in the city after the battle, and he was carried to the ships in an enclosed horse-litter. It was rumored that he was sorely wounded at Tara, but whether he has died or yet lives is unknown to me."

Baratheon waved a hand. "The reptile can wait his turn, then," he said dismissively. "What terms does the Conclave offer that I should listen to them?"

Talaeron bowed. "As it please my lord, I was not told what terms the Conclave offer or accept," he said carefully. This was the serious part. "I was bidden only to hear what terms you would accept as sufficient to end this war and convey them to the Conclave."

Baratheon leaned back in his chair. "The only terms we will accept are unconditional surrender," he said flatly. "Any who wish to leave the city may do so upon the surrender of all wealth they hold in the city, including their slaves. In return, I will not turn the city over to the soldiers to be sacked, and no man will be sentenced to die for any crimes they may have committed against their slaves."

It took all of Talaeron's self-control not to gape. "My lord," he said when he finally regained enough confidence that he felt able to speak without stuttering, "these terms are impossible. I am not privy to the Conclave's deliberations but I know for a certainty that they will never accept such terms as these!"

"They can accept these terms," Baratheon said, glowering, "or they can take their chances in a sack. I have sufficient force here to take the city by storm; the freedmen alone outnumber your soldiers within the walls by at least two to one. Your soldiers that are still outside the walls are too busy fighting rebel slaves to march to your aid and even if they did we would cut them to pieces. You have more than two hundred thousand slaves within your walls; do you truly think that you can hold the walls against us and the city against them at the same time?" The massively built Andal pointed a sausage-sized finger at Talaeron. "The only two choices available to the Conclave," he said in tones of absolute finality, "are these. Surrender and live, or fight and die. You've seen my army, boy. How confident are you that your city can fight it off?"

Talaeron shuddered involuntarily. The escort of knights that had met him halfway to the siege lines had been intimidating enough, like so many faceless metal monsters with swords and lances, but the slave, instantly identifiable by the scar around his neck that could only have come from a collar, who had stared at him with incandescent hatred in his eyes as he almost lovingly sharpened a short-sword had been chilling. And the sea of tents that spread around the walls of Myr held thousands of such men, each thirsting for bloody revenge. Talaeron had a sister and two nieces, and he had heard the tales of the Sunset Company's march to Myr.

_I am a son of Myr,_ he reminded himself sternly. _Fear is beneath my dignity. _"I will carry your terms to the Conclave, my lord," he said formally. "But I must warn you that they will find little favor."

"I don't care how little they favor our terms, so long as they surrender," Baratheon replied. "They can have the rest of this sennight to think it over."

_The Conclave responded to the demand for unconditional surrender with an offer to grant the officers of the Sunset Company titles of nobility and land in the northern part of the Myrish hinterlands, along with substantial donatives to each officer and also to the company as a whole. Robert responded to their offer by ordering the Corps of Pioneers, who had constructed a trio of mangonels during the negotiations, to begin bombarding the city. By the laws of war then in effect during this period, this signaled the end of negotiations; the siege of Myr was officially begun and could only end in victory for one side and defeat for the other._

\- _Chasing Dragons: The Sunset Company Reexamined_ by Maester Hendricus, published 1539 AC


	24. Chapter 24: Calm Before the Storm

Maester Gordon had always loved the sight of a tough job well done. His stonemason father, before sending him to the Citadel, had made Gordon earn his journeyman's ring the hard way, and the life of a stonemason's apprentice could be brutally hard. But seeing the actual finished product, especially of a tough, difficult job that strained the limits of your strength and skill, had an almost magical way of making the bruises and aches sting less painfully.

So looking at the finished product of what was probably the toughest job he had yet to undertake had him almost walking on clouds.

The problem had been multi-layered from the start. Firstly, the walls of Myr were forty feet high and some twenty feet thick. And if they weren't quite as formidable as the walls of Oldtown or Riverrun or any other Westerosi castle, they were still plenty tall and stout enough to withstand the three mangonels that were the heaviest artillery that Gordon and his Pioneers had had the means to construct. So opening a breach by bombardment was out of the question.

Secondly, the soil around Myr wasn't suitable for undermining, even if they had had the time to dig enough tunnels that one of them would slip past the inevitable counter-mines. Digging a mine ten or more feet across and some six hundred yards long would take sennights, even before they dug out a chamber underneath the actual walls large enough to cause a practicable breach. By that time, the company would be reduced to eating their remaining horses and draught beasts; if the assault failed they would be eating their boots and belts shortly thereafter, and then starvation would make them easy prey even for the Myrmen, much less any Dothraki that happened by. So mining was also out of the question.

And the traditional way of prosecuting a siege, by blockading the target and starving it out, was hilariously impractical. Myr's logistical issues were even greater than those facing the Sunset Company, to be sure, but the Myrish also had an open harbor and a fleet that could carry supplies from anywhere else in the world and carry them into the city. The Ironborn's longships were still in storage at Mytila, on the southern Braavosi coast, and even if they had been here, twenty longships could not hope to blockade any city against a respectable fleet of galleys and dromonds, such as the Myrish had.

That left escalade as the only practical option, along with battering down the gates. It was an option only rarely resorted to, on account of the hideous casualties it usually caused and the uncertainty of success when faced by skilled and determined opposition, but the captains, and especially Robert, believed that it could be made to work. The Myrish had shown that they were brave, at Tara, but they hadn't been able to stand against Westerosi men-at-arms in close combat.

So the Pioneers had been ordered to build a pair of siege towers, a covered battering ram, and as many scaling ladders as they could. Gordon had ransacked every town, village, hamlet, and yeoman's cottage for miles around, tearing down buildings and cutting down trees for timber, and worked his men every hour of daylight for the past three sennights. And his efforts had borne fruit. Two siege towers reared nearly sixty feet in the air, looming menacingly against the night sky with wetted hides, rugs, and tapestries covering their faces in a riotous patchwork of texture and color, and a battering ram lurked under its protective roof. Arrayed around the towers were a dozen ladders, each sized to overtop the walls.

Gordon wouldn't fancy being the man who went up those ladders first, but that wasn't his job. His Pioneers had claimed one of the ladders for themselves, but he wouldn't be going up it; he had never trained to arms, beyond the brawling techniques every working lad needed, and he would never see forty again, either.

The men who would be going up the ladders and the towers, and taking the ram in, were already preparing themselves for the assault tomorrow.

XXX

Robert and Eddard shared a flagon of wine in Robert's tent in companionable silence, both thinking on the morrow. They would both be going up one of the towers; Robert had had to go, of course, and Eddard, knowing better than to gainsay him, had insisted on joining him. Someone, he had claimed, had to watch Robert's back. The laugh that had gone around the council table had had an edge to it; everyone knew that the one common strand that held all the pieces of the company together was their acknowledgement of Robert's leadership. Especially after Tara men followed him as they wouldn't follow Eddard or Jaime, or even the Blackfish.

Where other men would have been nervously discussing the assault tomorrow, the foster-brothers knew there was nothing to discuss. Everything was in readiness for the assault, from the two great towers to the arrows stockpiled for the archers. And they were both confident enough in their own abilities and those of their men to not make idle boasts or seek reassurance.

There were other things to talk about though.

"Have you considered that that ambassador might have been lying when he said Rhaegar had left the city?" Eddard asked finally. "For all we know, he could be hiding in some cellar somewhere waiting for us to dig him out."

"If that were the case, then the royal fleet would still be in the harbor, and this siege would be a lot more difficult," Robert said. "If nothing else, I wouldn't try an escalade in the face of the lizard's lackeys; they might serve a rapist and a murderer, but Gods witness they can fight. No cowards or empty braggarts among that lot, not after Tara."

Eddard nodded. "And so long as he has a fleet and we don't, we can't catch the bastard," he said sourly. "Hence this siege."

Robert tipped his hand from side to side. "Among other things," he qualified. "For one, the freedmen would mutiny if we didn't at least try an assault." Eddard gestured acknowledgement; Akhollo, their elected captain and representative, along with Maester Gordon, had more than once said that he and his were fighting for their freedom, not 'some Andal girl', as he put it. And their freedom depended on the complete destruction of slavery in at least this corner of Essos. "For another," Robert paused, marshalling his thoughts. "We're being carried along on the back of something big here, Ned. I thought I had it figured out in Pentos, but I didn't know how just how many slaves there were in the East. It feels like it does in Storm's End, when a howling storm is coming in from the sea and the wind's just starting to pick up. When that storm breaks . . . " he shrugged his massive shoulders. "What we've done so far will look like a tourney, is the best feeling I have of it."

Eddard nodded somberly, contemplating the look he had seen in the freedmen's eyes when they spoke of freedom. It was the same look some men got when they talked about their gods. "So long as Rhaegar dies," he said finally, his voice as hard as northern stone. "Whoever else lives or dies, I will not rest until Rhaegar is food for worms and crows."

"Nor will I," Robert said. "But if we want to live long enough to take our revenge, then we need to carve out a kingdom here, and make it as strong as we can." Robert swirled the wine in his cup. "Myr isn't Storm's End," he said. "But it'll do."

The two foster-brothers sat and drank meditatively for a few moments more, and then Eddard drained his cup and stood. "I need to go," he said. "The men will be gathering soon, with the sun going down." The Northmen, lacking a heart tree or any other kind of tree thanks to the Pioneers' insatiable demand for timber, had decided to simply face northward as they prayed tonight.

Robert stood. "I need to go out as well," he said, tossing back the rest of his wine. "The men will be better for seeing me." Robert was no more than conventionally pious, being of the opinion that the here and now was far more important than whatever might be waiting for him after he died. That said, he knew that his soldiers would fight better for a man they knew than they would for a stranger, and seeing that that man shared their beliefs also went a long way towards binding them to him. And in any case, it was a lord's duty to honor the gods his folk worshipped, in much the same way that even a lord who couldn't fight was expected to take the field when his people went to war. "I'll see you in the morning."

"In the first light of dawn," Eddard said, grinning wolfishly, "and we'll have our luncheon in Myr."

The foster-brothers clasped forearms and embraced roughly.

XXX

Jaime Lannister hadn't gone to a sept with serious intent since he joined the Kingsguard. He had never been particularly pious to begin with, and standing guard at Queen Rhaella's door on those nights when Aerys had visited her had turned his heart against the gods. There were things that shouldn't be allowed to happen, especially when they could be prevented by a strong man with a sharp sword.

But his mind was in too much turmoil. His uncle, who had first taught him the blade, was dead, killed by some nameless _sellsword_ for all love, and although Jaime knew he was not as callow as he had been when the company had landed, he still felt anchorless without his uncle's gruff, solid dependability underwriting him. He and Uncle Gerion had mourned Tygett's death with a flagon of strong Tyroshi brandy and old memories, but while Gerion had seemed much better for it, the loss still ate at Jaime's confidence. Especially since he had failed the last serious challenge he had faced without his uncle's aid.

Of all the knights in the world, Jaime had known, one of the best was Ser Arthur Dayne. The Sword of the Morning hadn't just been a peerless swordsman, but a man of flawless honor and incomparable chivalry. Nor had it been solely repute; Jaime had seen him live the legend when he had allowed the Smiling Knight to take up another sword when his first broke in their famous duel. And Jaime had never seen him be anything less than the picture of courtesy, even when faced with vexation.

And then he had helped Rhaegar kidnap Lyanna Stark. Jaime cared little for the Stark girl, personally, but he had heard Aerys visit Rhaella after a man had been burned, and Rhaella's pleas. If Ser Arthur had not only stood aside while something similar had happened to the Stark girl but had a hand in bringing it about . . . the thought of it made Jaime nauseous.

When a Kingsguard turned to wrong it fell to their Sworn Brothers to punish them. It was why Jaime had attacked Ser Arthur in that last snarling melee during the pursuit from Tara. But Ser Arthur had handled him like a seasoned knight handled a new squire. Even with Stark pitching in, and quite well for a Northman if Jaime was being honest, Ser Arthur would almost certainly have killed them both if he hadn't been forced to fall back to prevent the rest of the Targaryen forces from being overrun. Jaime knew he was good with a sword, better than anyone his age he had ever fought. And as the saying went, even John the Oak or Serwyn of the Mirror Shield couldn't beat two men at once.

The only explanation Jaime could come up with was that the Warrior had favored Ser Arthur in that fight. Which posed its own problem; why would the gods look with favor on a man who had facilitated rape?

When he asked Septon Jonothor that question, after the fierce-eyed cleric had finished saying Divine Office for the Westermen and heard the last man's confession, the Septon had nodded understandingly, a grim set to his jaw. "It is one of the more common reasons that men doubt the gods," he replied. "And one of the most dangerous, because taken at face value it cannot be answered. If the gods are indeed all-powerful, all-knowing, and all-loving, as the _Seven-Pointed Star_ tells us, then evil ought not to exist." Jonothor sat down on the ground with a grunt and motioned for Jaime to sit with him. As Jaime did so, Jonothor continued. "That said, there are arguments against it. To begin with, the gods gave us minds and wills of our own, which perforce grants us the ability to choose evil over good. Therefore evil does not arise from the negligence or the culpable action of the gods, but by solely human agency, for which the gods cannot be justly blamed. For another," Jonothor gestured at the setting sun, "what is evil in the first place but the absence of an element of good, or a deviation from good? Bethink you, young Lannister; if we lived all our lives in the sunlight, how would we know what darkness is? How would we know what heat is without knowing what cold is? As darkness is to light and cold is to heat, so evil is to good; something without which it's opposite could not be experienced, much less defined." Jaime shrugged; he had never paid much attention when his father's maester had tried to teach him logic, but he could see how the argument followed.

Jonothor turned his gimlet eyes on Jaime again. "All that said," he went on, "my personal opinion is that whether or not the problem of evil contradicts the nature of the gods as we understand it is irrelevant. We are mortals, made imperfectly and born to suffer, but we have the strength to struggle against that suffering. And in our struggles we may pray to the gods for their aid; to the Father for justice, to the Mother for mercy, to the Warrior for strength, and so on. But the onus of the struggle rests on our shoulders alone. It is for us to either submit to our misfortunes, or to overcome them. It is for us to conquer our imperfections and defeat our difficulties, or to surrender to them." He pointed a finger skywards. "Whatever choice we make," he said, "the gods watch us, and judge whether we have proved ourselves worthy of reward. For those who submit to despair, the afterlife is much like this one, albeit less painful. But for those who overcome the difficulties that life sets against them, or who perish valiantly in their struggle, the Gates of the Seven Heavens truly open, and the delights of paradise await." He aimed the finger he had pointed at the heavens at Jaime. "That is the choice before you, Jaime Lannister," he said sternly. "Will you turn aside from your duty to punish your former brother for his crimes? Or will you persevere, even at the cost of your life? Choose wisely, young Lannister; the fate of your soul depends upon it."

With that Jonothor levered himself to his feet and strode off towards the tents of the Rivermen. Jaime remained sitting; he had much to think over.

XXX

The faiths of the Seven Kingdoms each had their own way of how a man prepared to die in battle. A man who worshipped the Seven would hear Divine Office, confess his sins, and receive the blessing of a septon. A man who followed the Old Gods would simply pray, and ask the Old Gods to watch over him in the fray; in the old days a dog, a horse, or even a man would be sacrificed to entice the Old Gods' favor, but those practices had long since died out.

Those who offered to the Drowned God, on the other hand, had a different way entirely.

A roaring bonfire had been built on the sea-strand with hoarded and salvaged wood and the Ironborn of the company were keeping wassail under the bright sickle-moon with as much of the company's stores of wine and beer as they could get their hands on. It was the way of the Ironborn to defy the coming of death with raucous celebration, with strong drink flowing like rivers, with thunderous song, and with men boasting of what deeds they would accomplish before the Drowned God took them to His halls and swearing to fight to the death beside their shield-brothers and their gold-giving lord.

This night, they had been joined by the followers of the Red God, who offered their own prayers to the Lord of Light to the acclamation of their fellows. As these prayers were almost all for courage in the coming battle, the Ironborn invariably joined in the acclamation with their traditional shout of "Wassail!" It was right and proper, to their thinking, for a man to call on his gods for aid in battle, especially if they then went out and fought with every ounce of their strength. And since the men offering the prayers would be the first ones up the ladders tomorrow that could be taken as read.

The drowned priests would have forbidden the intermingling, of course, but none had followed the company to Essos. And even if they had, they would have been hard-put to enforce the prohibition; above all else the Ironborn respected strength and courage. The freedmen had demonstrated both in spectacular fashion at Tara, and it was doubtful that a priest would have done as much. In point of fact, a priest would probably have been excluded from the revel as much as the women of the company were, and for the same reason; this was a night for _men_.

One man, as pale as any Westerosi, stood forward in the firelight and raised his hand, quieting the laughter and the shouts as all within hearing range gave ear to witness; the bard who had been chanting a lay of Dalton the Red Kraken let his voice trail off and the beat of his hand-drum soften to a murmur. "Tomorrow," the freedman said in halting Common Tongue only lightly flavored with Low Valyrian, "we fight. O Lord of Light let me fight with my sword in my hand and your flames in my heart." The freedmen round about murmured agreement. "So that if I should die in the assault," the freedman continued, "and face the terrible night of death, I will know that you, Lord who lights the fires of freedom, are with me, and I shall fear no man. I ask this by your grace, God of Flame and Shadow." The freedman raised his leather drinking-jack. "Drink hail!" he cried in the fashion that had spread from the Ironborn to the freedmen at the speed of alcohol.

"Wassail!" the revelers roared back, raising drinking-jacks, tankards, and ale-horns. The hum of conversation rose again as the freedman stepped back into the crowd and the bard began to chant again of Red Dalton and his raids. A short time later another freedman stood forward, this one a Summer Islander with a short beard and skin like polished ebony. Again the noise of the crowd died to a murmur.

"You know, Lord of Light," the freedman began, "that I was taken as a slave with all my family, and that we were sold to different masters, so that we have not seen or heard from each other since. You know also, Lord, that many of us here have suffered so." There were murmurs of agreement through the crowd. "So Lord of Light, I come before you tonight to ask that if tomorrow is the day we die, that you visit our families in the night of their terror and tell them that we died with our faces to the enemy." There was a ripple of approval from the freedmen, and also from the Ironborn. "Let our families know, Lord," the freedman went on, his voice building, "that we died with our teeth in the throats of our enslavers." The chorus of approval was shouted now, and a few Dothraki freedmen gave the short high-pitched whoops that presaged the blood-scream. "Let them know, Lord," the freedman shouted, "that we died free!" There were roars of approbation from every quarter now, and those with weapons flourished them in the firelight. "I ask this of your Grace, o Heart of Flame, knowing how you love justice and hate the evildoer," said the freedman, raising his goblet. "Drink hail!"

"Wassail!" the crowd roared back, drinking deep to seal the prayer. Victarion stood from where he had been sitting on a log and motioned to the men who had been serving the drink, who promptly began to refill the emptied containers.

"Brothers!" Victarion roared in his battle-voice, already deep for one as young as he. "The gods witness that I hate to cut short a revel such as this. But we must rise early tomorrow, and I am told that we are running out of drink anyway." There was scattered laughter at the slight jest. "So allow me to end this night with a boast on behalf of us all!" he cried, holding his horn out before him. "After we drink hail to this boast, neither wine nor beer nor ale shall pass our lips until we slake our thirst in the palaces of Myr! And if the Drowned God wills that we drink not there, we shall go to His halls and drink _them_ dry!" He raised his horn high. "Drink hail!" he roared.

"WASSAIL!" the Ironborn bellowed back amid gales of laughter. It was just the sort of madcap, daredevil gesture that spoke to the soul of every Ironborn, who learned from the cradle that all the riches of the earth were theirs if they were bold enough to seize them. The freedmen also added their voices to the toast, with a savage edge that made even hardened and tipsy reavers blink. As the revelers staggered to their beds, Ironborn and freedmen alike clasped hands and swore to fight to the death on the morrow; the Ironborn for honor's sake, and the freedmen for the sake of Holy Freedom.


	25. Chapter 25: The Storm Breaks

The first rays of dawn found the Sunset Company in ranks and ready to attack. During the night, the siege towers and scaling ladders had been wheeled to the head of the trench lines by the Pioneers, just two hundred yards from the walls. Robert's Stormlanders were packed in behind one, aimed at the northern side of the Great Eastern Gate, with Eddard's Northmen squeezed in with them. Behind the other tower, aimed at the next section of wall northward, the Westermen and the Ironborn were packed in a solid column while behind the dozen men carrying each scaling ladder there was a mass of men (and a few hard women) in the varied armor of the freedmen.

The few septons that had followed the company to the east walked up and down the lines, granting general absolution. When the septons came by the Stormlanders, there was a rush of rustling and clanking as armored men knelt and signed themselves with the seven-pointed star while the septon recited the sacrament. Eddard and his Northmen also knelt, but not for the septon. Each Northman took a pinch of dirt from the ground and held it to his lips; the more devout swallowed it, as Eddard did. _From the earth we come, and to the earth we return, _Eddard recited to himself, in the traditional prayer that the followers of the old gods made when faced with likely death. _Gods of my fathers, watch over me amid the shattering of the spears. Grant me your strength, that I might overcome my enemies. And if I die, know that I accept it willingly, for each must die someday. So mote it be._

As the company stood, Robert held out his hand and his squire Richard Horpe handed him a horn. Robert paused, looked down the line of the company, and then blew a sky-shaking blast. "Forward!" he roared. "Justice and vengeance!"

With an answering bellow of "Justice and vengeance!" the company advanced under the patchy sky. Men put their shoulders to the poles that stuck out from the base of the siege towers and pushed, so that the great contraptions began to roll forward slowly. The freedmen, far quicker off the mark, loped forward in a dozen columns, each one tipped by a scaling ladder. As they advanced the freedmen gave voice to a baying roar, like hounds at the scent of a boar, slowly overridden by a chant of "Free or dead!"

The defenders of Myr were not long in replying. The first crossbow bolts began to fly within moments, followed by bolts from the quintet of springalds mounted atop the walls. The first screams rose up to the sky, but they went unheeded by men who were still more angry than afraid. For his part, Eddard raised the shield he had taken from the supply wagons and plodded on behind the tower. The plate armor he was wearing was all but impervious to any but the heaviest of crossbows barring very bad luck indeed, but a shield would help with those odds regardless, though he would discard it once he went up the siege tower and rely on his longsword.

The fact that the shield would be no help at all if one of the springalds hit him was something he consciously disregarded. Some things just didn't bear thinking about.

After a seeming eternity of slowly marching behind the tower through a rain of bolts, the tower finally ground to a halt; they had reached the foot of the wall. Eddard tossed aside the shield and followed Robert up the series of steep stairs and ladders to the second-topmost level. On the actual topmost level there were a dozen archers and crossbowmen from the freedmen who were even now raking the wall with arrows and bolts, trying to clear a space for the knights and men-at-arms swarming up the tower to attack into. At last, when the second-topmost level was filled with men, each with the staring eyes and curling lips that Eddard knew as the visible signs of the battle-fury, the gangplank creaked downwards, those men with visors closed them, and with a wordless roar of fear-fueled fury, Robert and Eddard tucked their shoulders into their shields and stormed forward.

They were met with a volley of crossbow bolts that thudded into their shields like a storm of hammerblows but failed to do them any harm, and the two foster-brothers dropped their shields and rushed across the gangplank and onto the wall before the defenders could reload. Eddard fought in grim silence, but for the _huff_ of expended breath as he struck out with his longsword, alternating diagonal overhands with short thrusts as he sought to cut a path through the Myrmen. Robert, by contrast, laughed and roared as he laid about him with his hammer, each blow dashing a Myrman to the ground. "Three!" he bellowed, as he crushed a helmet. "Four!" as he shattered a scale breastplate. "Come on you bastards, my hammer's hungry!" Behind them came a flood of Northmen and Stormlanders. The Greatjon was next on the wall after Eddard and the first blow of his greatsword cleaved through two Myrmen and knocked a third off the wall screaming. Ser Willam Fell, commonly called 'Silveraxe,' shouldered his way onto Robert's left side, his famous axe rising and falling like a blacksmith's hammer, while Richard Horpe followed Robert as close as he could without impeding his lord's fighting room. Maege and Dacey Mormont jumped off the gangplank with shadowcat screams, their maces whirring. Ser Brus Buckler fell in on Robert's right, his sword and shield working like a boxer's fists. They had a foothold on the wall.

But they didn't have the towers on either side of them. Those towers were full of crossbowmen loosing bolts as fast as they could span their crossbows and even against heavy armor the bolts told as either chance or skill sent them through the gaps in protection that every suit of armor had; the stones being cast from the roofs of those towers were even more effective, if less accurate. A Northman in Umber livery fell screaming as a bolt punched through the mail skirt beneath his breastplate and skewered his groin. A Stormlander with a visor-less sallet helm was shot through the face and toppled off the gangplank without so much as a sigh, dead long before he hit the ground sixty feet below. The Myrish spearmen, defending their homes and families, closed ranks and fought with the grim doggedness of men with everything to lose, holding the Westerosi at bay with a wall of shields and a hedge of spear points. Arnolf Karstark tried to break through the spears and was cut off and stabbed to death with daggers. Maege Mormont stood over the body of her daughter Dacey, slain by a ten-pound stone thrown from a tower that broke her skull, and wept as she slew. The archers and crossbowmen on the siege tower took every shot they could, but they were beginning to run short of arrows, and what was more three of them were dead and four more severely wounded.

To compound the problem, there simply wasn't enough space. The foothold on the wall was already packed with men and no more could fit, so that the flood of reinforcements became clogged on the gangplank of the siege tower, a prime target for crossbow and rock and thrown spear. The Westerosi were being stymied, bottled up by spearmen who forewent trying to push them off the wall by their own efforts and simply held them in place for the crossbows to chip away at them.

On the other segment of the wall, much the same thing was happening. Gregor Clegane and Victarion Greyjoy had led the rush across the gangplanks, with Jaime Lannister and Dagmer Cleftjaw hard on their heels; the Mountain, who had missed the final scrambling melee in the pursuit from Tara thanks to his horse foundering beneath him, had flatly refused to let Jaime be first onto the wall and offered to eat the guts of any man who tried to stop him. Now, on the walls of Myr, Gregor Clegane was proving his worth as every swing of his massive greatsword felled a Myrman. Roaring with the battle-lust, he forged ahead into the crowd of Myrmen, blazing a path to the door of the tower separating the Westermen and the Ironborn from the Stormlanders and Northmen. He was twenty steps deep in the Myrish phalanx when a fifteen-pound rock thrown from the tower he had been making for struck him on the helmet and dropped him to his knees, stunned. Talaeron Arreos, who was one of the officers on this stretch of wall, dropped shield and spear and, drawing a dagger, tackled the Mountain, knocking him fully prone. Clegane, who managed to come to his senses a bare moment before the young Myrman was able to drive the dagger into his visor, caught the young Myrman's wrist in one hand and his neck in the other and crushed his throat by main strength, but by then another Myrman had dropped his shield and spear to take up the stone that had stunned the Mountain. Propelled downward by frantic, hateful, desperate strength, the stone split in half even as it broke Clegane's helmet asunder along the weld-lines and smashed him down into unconsciousness. A quartet of Myrmen who flung themselves on him with daggers stabbed him to death in the next instant, even as the Myrman who had taken up the stone stamped his boot down on his head as a man stamps on a scorpion he has stumbled across by surprise.

Even as the Mountain had blazed his last trail of blood and death, the Myrish spears had closed behind him and held the Andals at bay. Jaime, Victarion, and Dagmer were swiftly joined by Jaime's uncle Gerion, Lyle Crakehal, Harras Harlaw, and Addam Marbrand, but the same problems that were befalling Robert and Eddard on the next section of wall over were befalling them. There was simply too little space and too many Myrmen resolved to shed their heart's blood in the last ditch to protect their families and their livelihoods for any collection of paladins to overcome.

The assault would almost certainly have been repulsed with great loss, but two things happened that later chroniclers almost uniformly ascribed to the will of the gods.

XXX

Gordon's heart sank as he saw the freedmen begin to fall back from the wall. With a shout of "Follow me!" to those of his Pioneers who hadn't gone forward yet, he plunged forward towards the retreating men; he was not terribly conversant with how fighting men acted under these sorts of conditions, but he had heard about how important it was to stop a retreat as quickly as possible, before it became a rout. The freedmen's officers were already bellowing themselves hoarse as they waded into their men, cursing mightily as they exhorted their men to stand and fight, but they needed help

He body-checked the first retreating set of retreating men he came to. "Stop, godsdamnit!" he roared in their faces. "Stop! We'll beat the bastards yet!" Moving on, he grabbed an underofficer by the shoulders and shook him roughly. "Grow some balls, man!" he shouted. "Get your boys in order and get them back on those walls!" Pushing deeper into the crowd he caught a pair of men by the collars of their gambesons. "Are you going to let the bastards enslave you _again_!?" he demanded. "Stand and fight, damn you!" Pushing off from them he came across Akhollo, who was almost weeping with rage as he abominated his men in Dothraki for cowards and eunuchs. Gordon buffeted him across the face to get his attention. "Get a hold of yourself, man!" he roared. "Get a hold of yourself and a handle on your men; we need them up that wall!"

"STAND, BROTHERS!" Gordon spun around and saw Septon Jonothor standing like a tower, his crystal raised in his right hand and his face transfigured with passion. "STAND," Jonothor roared in a voice of thunder, "AND HEAR THE WORDS OF THE GODS!"

The freedmen nearby, already slowed by Gordon and their officers, halted dead in their tracks; others, nearby, slowed to a walk.

Jonothor raised his eyes to the heavens. "Thus sayeth the Father:" he said in a voice that carried even over the surf-pounding of the assault, "he that places chains on a man and enslaveth him enslaveth me, for man is made in my image. Him that would keep faith with me must give no peace to the slaver, nor show him mercy, but destroy him utterly, and free every man he holds in bondage. Thus sayeth the Warrior:" the freedmen around him were staring at him transfixed, those nearby who had slowed down had stopped. Others further away were slowing. "Thou art my battle axe and my weapons of war. With thee shall I shatter kingdoms; with thee shall I break in pieces the nations. For it is I who lend thee of my strength, that thou mayest overthrow thine enemies, and take their possessions for thy birthright. Thus sayeth the Father:" every freedman within hearing range had stopped by now, and others out of easy earshot were stopping to investigate and crowding around. "Him that seeketh justice, and who giveth of his life for the cause of justice, even though he die, yet shall he live. For I shall take him up and say to him 'Well done and bravely fought, thou who art great among my children.' And I shall seat him at my right hand at the feasting table, as a father doth a favorite son, and the Mother shall bless him, and the Warrior greet him as a brother, and the Maiden welcome him as a bridegroom. And on the last day when the living and the dead are judged I shall say unto him, 'The blood that thou shed for my justice hath washed away thy sin, and thy virtue hath burned evil out of thee, and thou shalt live at my side as a favored son, while the heavens endure.'"

Jonothor glared about him, his eyes blazing with fervor. "These are the words that the Seven-who-are-One say to you, my brothers," he proclaimed. "And their words are true! Why then do you fear for your lives?! For if you die, then you die as free men, fighting for the Father's justice, and the delights of Paradise shall be yours! And if you live in triumph, you shall be free, and your children and your children's children after you shall be free!" He flung his arm out to point at the walls. "There is the enemy!" he bellowed, spit flying. "There are the authors of your grief, the makers of your despair, the begetters of your pain! There are the ones who have taken your freedom, who have blasphemed against the gods! There are the enemies of freedom, of justice, of life! The gods look down upon you and they say, 'Fight! Strike them down! Slay and spare not among them! As they have done unto you, do unto them sevenfold! This we command, opening the Gates of the Heavens for the fallen!'" The freedmen were stirring, murmurs turning to feral growls. Jonothor threw up his hands, his crystal catching the light in a spray of color. "So go forth!" he thundered. "Go forth and fear not, for the gods watch over you! Go forth and conquer! The gods will it!"

The other septons, standing nearby, threw up their hands also. "The gods will it!" they bawled in chorus. "The gods will it!" The freedmen immediately around them began to take up the chant. "The gods will it! The gods will it!" The chant spread through the crowd of freedmen, building strength like a storm at sea. "The gods will it! The gods will it!" Every freedman in the crowd was shouting now, brandishing weapons. "The gods will it! _The gods will it!_ THE GODS WILL IT!"

Akhollo threw his head back and gave voice to the yipping howl of his war cry. "Forward!" he bellowed, brandishing the sword he had taken from a Pentoshi nobleman. "Free or dead! The gods will it!"

The freedmen surged towards the walls like a mighty wave, bearing their hatred before them like the first wind of a hurricane. Their ladders had been cast down by the Myrmen; a thousand hands raised them up again and freedmen stormed up the ladders with berserk fury in their hearts. The Myrish officers hadn't expected the freedmen to return from their retreat and so they had sent men to reinforce the sectors attacked by the siege towers; those that remained were submerged by the onset. A tower door was hacked down with axes and the tower bloodily stormed, Myrish crossbowmen pitched off the tower roof to fall sixty feet to the ground, screaming all the way. The integrity of the whole defense was jeopardized.

But the Myrmen had laid plans against such an eventuality. The City Watch had been split into companies of two hundred men and each company had been assigned to a tower as a reserve. If a tower were to be breached, then its company was to immediately reinforce the tower's defenders and restore the situation. The City Watch were keepers of the peace and enforcers of the law, not soldiers, but their families were in the city, and they knew that they were the only thing between those families and the horde of slaves and Andals that had sworn to utterly destroy them. So the City Watch of Myr streamed in through the ground-floor door of the tower and up the stairs to the landing just beneath the wall, closed ranks behind their recently issued shields, leveled their spears, and fought as men fight against drowning. The freedmen threw themselves at the wall of spears and shields with the abandon of men who cared not whether they lived or died so long as they slew, but even the transcendent rage that possessed them could not breach that wall of desperate men. The floor of that landing was quickly awash in blood and knee-deep in corpses, but still the deadlock continued.

That death-grapple was broken apart by something that absolutely no-one had expected.

XXX

It had been years and years since the slaves of Myr city had revolted. Partly this was due to the savagery with which the last revolt had been suppressed, but it also had its roots in the reality of how social mores were enforced. In strictest theory, a slave was their master's property to do with as they pleased, but in practice there were sharp limits on that power. For one thing, no properly behaved Myrish aristocrat, or any who aped their manners, would dream of harming their slaves except as a punishment for wrongdoing; not only was it poor business sense, it simply wasn't gentlemanly. In much the same way, although female slaves were almost always sexually exploited by their masters, it was the expectation that any resulting children would remain with their mother, who would retain her position in the household, and would become a part of the household themselves when they reached an age to enter service. Furthermore, deliberate and gratuitous cruelty was sharply frowned upon; a true gentleman behaved with appropriate restraint in all situations, especially in the exercise of power over those who had none of their own. In the privacy of the countryside, a master could thumb his nose at this unwritten code of behavior and get away with it, for the most part, but in the city there were many more eyes belonging to interested parties. It was a rare man (or woman for that matter) who would invite social opprobrium by breaking the rules of properly civilized conduct.

This was not to say that the lot of a slave in Myr city was a happy one, of course. Even the best of days came with a hundred little slights and humiliations, all overlaid by the weight of the collar and brand. And such days were few and far between. However, the lack of opportunity to remedy their situation either by fair means or foul, combined with the occasional drastic example of the consequences of failed rebellion, had forced most of the slaves in Myr city to at least bury their anger so deeply under the mask of servility that even they didn't know it was there.

But things had changed. The slaves had heard the rumors that had come flying down with the north wind. _The Andals come from beyond the sunset to bring freedom. They will break every chain and strike off every shackle. They will break the power of the masters and destroy them utterly. Under their rule there shall be neither slave nor bondsman, but free men and women. _Most of the slaves did not fully believe the rumors, especially the one that had claimed that the coming of the Andals heralded a new age of freedom where all men would be _absolutely _equal. But they certainly believed the rumor that the Andals meant to destroy slavery; their own masters had said as much, repeatedly and with growing hysteria as they drew ever closer. And judging by the flood of refugees from the countryside, and the news of the great battle, the Andals seemed likely to win. What was more, there was proof that the Andals were serious about destroying slavery.

Slaves in Myr did not carry arms. Exceptions were made for household guards, but they could not wear armor and they were forbidden from carrying any weapon besides clubs or staves. And the use of slaves as household guards had not taken root in Myr as it did in other Free Cities; every house of rank or note had its assortment of bravos whose main duty was to serve as the house's defense against anyone inclined to mischief. For the Andals to not only free slaves but give them weapons and training in how to use them was clear proof that they meant what they said about freedom.

So the slaves had begun to lay plans. The initial plot had originated in the shipyards, under the leadership of a slave foreman named Franlan who had originally thought only to prevent that portion of the Myrish fleet that lay at anchor in the harbor from being denied to the liberators. From there it had expanded to the other artisan's guilds; seven in ten of the guildsmen in Myr were slaves, the property of the master craftsmen who used them as unpaid apprentices and journeymen. Even some domestic slaves had been brought in, despite the fact that these were the most likely to betray their co-conspirators. The plan had been simple. Wait until the masters were sufficiently involved in the fighting on the walls, and then hit them from behind.

When the City Watch marched to reinforce the walls and attempt to retake the captured tower, the slaves had been alerted by a relay of runners and the first sparks had flown. The shipyard slaves had broken out of their barracks and overwhelmed the few men who remained to guard them. Adzes, chisels, and mauls had broken open the barracks of the other artisan-slaves and the rising spread like wildfire. A solid mass of slaves, many of them muscular toughs from the smithies and the slaughterhouses, poured forth from the artisan's quarter and marched into the neighborhoods inhabited by the magisters and the richer freeborn citizens; before the hour was out whole streets were a chaos of blood as the slaves rampaged through the manses of the rich and slew all who came under their weapons.

At the same time a third player entered the game. By ancient pact, the Red Temple of Myr did not keep a chapter of the Fiery Hand, but they were allowed to train devotees of their faith who aspired to join the Fiery Hand's ranks in Volantis. At the time of the siege, the Red Temple could command the services of thirty-three fully trained men who were waiting only for a vacancy in the Hand's ranks, as well as a like number of trainees and older priests who had received training in the past but had decided not to serve their Lord in a militant role. When the siege had begun, High Priest Danikos had brought his congregants into the Temple to protect them and laid plans with his subordinates to intervene in an assault; the Red Faith was tolerated in Myr, but not embraced or particularly honored by many beyond the lower classes and the slaves, and Myrish officialdom looked upon the Lord of Light's priests and devotees with disfavor. Danikos was sixty-eight years old, and had absorbed many slights and witnessed the oppression of many of his congregants over those years. It was time to pay the debt in blood.

When the slave revolt broke out of the artisan's quarter, Danikos knew it was time. The gates of the Red Temple opened and Danikos himself led the Red Sword of the Lord of Light onto the streets. As they marched to the walls, chanting a battle-hymn to the God of Flame and Shadow, a growing tail of rebelling slaves grew around them, drawn as much by the disciplined purpose of the R'hllorites as by the belligerence of their hymn.

When they reached the Great Eastern Gate, they paused only to roar "Lord of Light, defend us!" before charging home. The nearby companies of the City Watch, caught in the middle of deploying onto the walls, turned about and tried to form ranks but they were swarmed under and hacked into bloody ruin. Danikos was killed in the first moments of the onset but his second-in-command, a man named Kalarus, took up the leadership instantly and pressed home the attack. The company that had marched into the captured tower was taken from behind by a party of slaves sent by Kalarus under the leadership of a trio of red priests and was massacred to a man. The slaves battered down the tower doors and stormed in with incoherent roars while half a thousand hands lifted the bars holding the Great Eastern Gate shut out of their brackets and hauled back the great leaves.

Lyn Corbray's Valemen had weathered volley upon volley of crossbow bolts and hails of stones trying to break down the gates and they were now in a fury. Only some very fast talking on Kalarus' part and some great good luck prevented them from slaughtering their new-found allies. Lyn, fastening upon the essentials of the situation, seized a horn from his squire and blew as he had never blown before, signaling that the gate was open. Brynden Tully, hearing the horn blasts, sounded his own horn, committing the Sunset Company's reserves to the fray. The freedmen, inspired by Jonothor's impromptu sermon, had already stormed for the walls, but there were still just under six hundred men under Brynden's control, all Riverlanders and many of them men he had recruited himself to join Robert and Eddard in their feud. At the horn-blast from their captain, the Riverlanders advanced, trotting towards and through the gate in a river of steel, their knights at the head of the column led by the Blackfish himself.

Now the true slaughter began. The Myrmen on the walls, cut off and surrounded, were cut down without regard for cries of surrender, which to their credit were few. The soldiers of the Sunset Company streamed off the walls to join their comrades who had come through the gate and together they swarmed into the city, Westerosi and freedmen alike driven equally berserk by the fighting. Streams of soldiers, spearheaded by the Myrish slaves, swarmed into the city, baying like wolves at the sight of wounded prey. The red priests, their mission fulfilled, cut their way back to the Red Temple and resolved to fight off all comers to defend their congregants and their families. The remaining City Watchmen of Myr fought valiantly, but they were too few and the attackers were not to be denied of even the least part of their prize.

Even as the last of the Watch were being slaughtered on the steps of the Palace of Order, the screams were already rising from the city. In just under an hour of brutal fighting the fate of Myr had been sealed, and the gateway was opened to what would later be called the Generation of Blood.


	26. Chapter 26: The Storm's Fury

**Author's Note: Trigger warning for mentions of sexual assault in the first two parts of this chapter. The city's being sacked under medieval codes of warfare; it's not a pretty sight. Also Ironborn are Ironborn, even when they're on the side of the good guys.**

Ser Brynden Tully had been a soldier for almost all his adult life. In those years he had he had fought in duels, skirmishes, sieges, and pitched battles. He had thought he had seen much of what men drunk on blood could do.

He had not, however, seen a major city sacked.

This was mostly due to the rarity of such things. The only city to be sacked in Westeros in living memory had been King's Landing, and Brynden had been several miles away from that mess, although he had seen the aftermath. In the early 200s, the Golden Company had sacked Qohor, but that had also been a rarity; in the normal run of Essosi warfare, cities were not themselves directly sieged. And in most successful sieges, the defenders surrendered on terms, which tended to include the prohibition of a general sack.

So when Brynden took responsibility for trying to police the sack, he quickly found himself facing the toughest job he had ever undertaken. If he hadn't managed to keep a hundred of his knights and their squires under his control and sober, bribed by the promise of double shares and a division of Brynden's own share, it would have been impossible.

"The docks are secure!" one of those knights was yelling in Brynden's ear over the clamor. "Lord Stark's Northmen have linked up with the slaves there. Most of the Northmen have gone off looting, but Lord Stark and his household men have joined the cordon."

Brynden nodded, gentling his horse as it shifted underneath him at the commotion. "How many ships are docked?" he yelled back, closing his mind to the rhythmic screams coming from the manse across the street.

"Twenty galleys and dromonds that I could see," the knight shouted. "Whole mess of cogs and hulks also. Lord Stark said he had them well in hand, so long as no fires started."

Brynden winced; the thought of a fire reaching the docks and the shipyards, with their stores of seasoned timber, pitch, oakum, sailcloth, tar, and ropes, was terrifying. He turned in the saddle. "Ser Mychel!" he called, waving his arm, and Ser Mychel Charlton trotted up. "Take forty men and patrol the dockside streets until relieved. Any man starting fires is subject to summary execution, on my authority." Ser Mychel clanked his gauntleted fist off his breastplate in salute and clattered off with his score of knights close behind. Brynden turned to his next lieutenant, Ser Harrold Grey. "Ser Harrold, take forty men and patrol from _here,_" Brynden indicated the street they were located on, which seemed to be the dividing line between the artisan's quarter and the magister's quarter, "out to the northern wall. Your focus is to protect the market squares; don't try and prevent looting, but keep them from being completely destroyed. Again, any man starting fires is subject to summary execution, on my authority." Myr had been taken by storm, which meant that the company could do whatever they liked with the people and the movable property, but even sacks had rules, the main one being that arson was strictly forbidden. For one thing, the immovable property of the captured city now belonged to Robert as the company's commander. For another, burning down a city with the company inside it would be even more catastrophic than a repulse would have been.

Ser Harrold frowned. "Forty men is pretty few to try and hold the market squares," he said dubiously.

"Which is why I don't expect you to hold them," Brynden replied. "They don't have to be pristine, just not destroyed."

Ser Harrold nodded, saluted, and trotted away with his forty men. Brynden knew that Harrold would have a difficult time, but it should get easier. For one thing, the sack was only an hour old; once the men got their hands on the city's supplies of drink, increasing intoxication would render them less physically capable of violence, if more easily disposed to it. For another, Brynden wasn't asking him to try and restrain the men from all misdeeds, simply from firesetting.

Brynden knew enough about soldiers to know that a sack, once started, could not be controlled. It could only be ridden out.

Which was why, when the half-naked girl ran screaming down the street with a trio of soldiers, one Northman and two freedmen by the look of them, in hot pursuit, Brynden made no move to intervene. His duty was to prevent the burning of the city and protect vital installations, not keep every woman in the city from being raped. In any case, he simply didn't have enough men to do it. He had sent Ser Mychel and his forty to the dockside streets, Ser Harrold and his forty to the northern sector markets, and he had eighty men protecting the crossbow manufactory and the two largest armorer's shops in the artisan's quarter. That left him only forty men to help the red priests protect the people who had taken refuge in their temple and serve as a central reserve. Eddard had the docks in hand, Robert was in the artisan's quarter keeping the crossbow manufactory under guard, Lyn Corbray had joined his troops in looting by all accounts, and Victarion and Akhollo were leading the pillage in the Palace of Order. Aside from the men under Brynden's command, there were no men-at-arms under discipline in the whole city.

So Brynden closed his ears to the screams and waited for his lieutenants to send him progress reports by galloper. There was nothing else to do.

XXX

The Palace of Order had been the seat of Myrish governance for centuries. Within its halls the Conclave had met in council, alliances and treaties had been ratified, laws had been passed, and the city-states judges had presided over the enforcement of law and order. During those years, the Palace of Order had seen its share of parties; restrained, sober, and elegant parties, these, where the wealthy and the powerful mixed with their peers, to see and be seen.

The Ironborn had different ideas of what a good party was like.

The Sack of Myr was a day old, and although the first rush of savagery had largely spent itself, the army was not yet done with its carnival of officially sanctioned lawlessness. There were a few holdouts of order, mainly around the Red Temple where Brynden Tully had placed his banner and around the docks, where Eddard Stark was ruthlessly enforcing sobriety and discipline. But the rest of the city was a pandemonium of drunkenness, looting, rape, and murder. One of the few islands of relative stability was the Palace of Order, where the freedmen of the company and the Ironborn had a boast to fulfill, in which they allowed certain men who had proved their valor to their satisfaction to join. The other captains had been invited to join the revels, but they had refused. Robert and Eddard were hammering out terms with Foreman Franlan, who had led the shipyard slaves in the initial revolt, Jaime was putting his feet up in the manse that Rhaegar Targaryen had occupied, and Lyn had begged off as being busy overseeing his men at plunder.

Not that the Ironborn, the freedmen, and their accomplices strictly needed the captains to be present; they had things well in hand. Every hour parties striking out into the rest of the city came back with more wine, more beer, more food, and more women to sate the appetites of conquerors. The cells that had held miscreants awaiting judgement became holding pens for the women, who were routinely dragged off to be raped. The rooms where judges had pronounced on questions of law became storerooms for looted treasure and brothels were the captured women were violated. The hallways were filled with soldiers shouting drunken plaudits and vows of brotherhood to each other over the screams and quaffing wine by the gallon. And in the chamber where Rhaegar Targaryen and the Conclave had received the Sunset Company's letters at the start of the campaign, the officers held court.

Victarion Greyjoy leaned his chair back on its rear legs, resting his booted feet on the table as he held a bottle of wine in one hand and a young woman of Myr under his arm. His armor had been stripped off, save for his arming coat and vambraces, and rested on the floor behind him along with his axe. Around the table, in similar condition, were Dagmer Cleftjaw, Ser Harras Harlaw, and Akhollo, who was currently standing on the table and chanting a riding song in Dothraki to the cheers of the other officers and the hangers-on who also filled the room. The young woman under Victarion's arm, barely seventeen and stark naked save for bruises, scratches, and her waist-length seal-brown hair, huddled by the man who had claimed her as a prize of war; if Victarion was brutal and unthinking in his lust at least he was not deliberately cruel. She had seen and heard the women who had fallen into the hands of the freedmen, and her mind shrank from the fresh memories. If the other men around her cast leering eyes her way, none dared to try and steal the prize of their captain.

Akhollo finished his song to thundering applause and flung up his hands for quiet, which came reluctantly. "Brothers!" he cried, his vocabulary improved over the months but his accent still thick, and more so from drink. "We are _men_!" There were shouts of acclamation from the onlookers and men beat their fists against the table. "But we have not a name," Akhollo said slurringly, "not a name as our Andal and Ironborn brothers do! We must take one!" At the shouts of agreement Akhollo threw his arms wide. "Come, come," he said expansively, "suggest names! I welcome all ideas!"

"The Unshackled!" cried a bulky freedman wearing a judge's hat at a jaunty angle.

"The Freed Ones!" called an Ironborn with his fingers twisted in a Myrish girl's hair.

"The Sons of Liberty!" yelled a freedman with a tankard in one hand and a joint of mutton in the other.

"The Chainbreakers!" hollered a Westerman with a Myrish girl under each arm.

Ser Harras Harlaw disentangled himself from the girl under his arm and leaped onto the table. "The Iron Legion!" he bellowed, drowning out all others. "The Ghiscari claim their legions are the finest foot in the world," Harras said, taking a wide-legged stance on the table, "but could their legions have rallied and taken the walls as our brothers have done?" Boos and catcalls filled the air with derision. "I say nay!" Harras answered his own question. "Our brothers have shown that they are men with iron in their souls, as we are, and they must have a name that shows it! A name that shows that they have paid the iron price for it! And if the iron legions of New Ghis object to having their name stolen," Harras spread his hands extravagantly, not caring for the wine that spilled from his goblet, "then they are welcome to come and take it back, if they can!"

Predatory laughs ran through the crowd of revelers as Akhollo nodded and raised his hands again. "What say you, my brothers who are blood of my blood!" he shouted. "Shall we call ourselves the Iron Legion?"

"Aye!" the freedmen in the chamber roared back raising their drinking vessels in salute. "_Aye!_ AYE!"

XXX

Septon Jonothor rose from the cot, tucked his much-thumbed copy of _The Seven-Pointed Star_ under his arm, and signed the seven-pointed star over the Stormlander. "Gods watch over you," he said softly, and stepped away to move on to the next.

The assault on the walls and the gate had produced heavy casualties. The Sunset Company had numbered just under eight thousand men when they had launched the assault, and in taking the city they had suffered just over six hundred men killed and around a thousand wounded. The wounded, for the most part, had fallen into three categories. First, there were the men who were only lightly wounded and were fit for light duties after being stitched and bandaged. The next group was those men whose wounds were serious to put them off their feet for days or sennights, thanks to minor broken bones, moderate slash or stab wounds, or light scalds by the boiling water and tallow that had been poured over the battering ram, but whose lives would be saved by medical treatment.

The third group was the men whom Jonothor was walking among.

These were the men who had been placed in the hands of the gods. The company had only one maester with any training in the healing arts, and Maester Antony had nowhere near the resources necessary to treat a thousand wounded men with only a handful of assistants, and in any case the majority of their attention was reserved for the highborn wounded and their household men. So men who had suffered serious broken bones, serious slash or stab wounds, and serious scalds had been carried into this room, which had once been the main guildhall of the Weaver's Guild, and left to recover as they might or die, as the gods decreed. As these were the men most in need of divine succor, it was here that Jonothor was spending the sack; in the past two and a half days he had had only seven hours of sleep. Nor had he eaten more than morsels snatched at random, although given the smell of the wound rot that was starting to set in, that might be for the better. The other septons of the company were also gliding around the room giving what aid and comfort they could, either through prayer or through what medical knowledge they had picked up over the years; the maesters claimed a monopoly on healing, but every septon knew how to dress a wound, wrap a tourniquet, and splint a fracture, in the event that they found a parishioner in need.

He went to the next bed down, where a Northman was lying with a broken skull; a rock thrown from one of the towers had struck him on the helmet and he hadn't awoken since. Jonothor knelt by the bedside, felt for a pulse at the man's neck, and found none.

His surcoat was unadorned, bore no heraldry. Jonothor turned to the Stormlander he had just visited. "Your pardon, my son," he asked, "but do you know who this man serves?"

The Stormlander, both his legs broken, lifted himself up on his elbows. "No idea, father," he said with a shake of his head. "Never seen him before he was brought in here. Lot of big Northmen carried him in, didn't have any heraldry on them. Sorry."

Jonothor nodded. "Think not of it, son," he said with a reassuring wave. As the Stormlander sank back on his pallet, Jonothor was thinking furiously. Under the laws of the Faith, any man could receive the blessing of the gods. That said, what was needed here was not a simple blessing but a prayer for the commendation of the dead to the care of the gods, and that Jonothor could _not_ give him; under the laws of the Faith, only the Faithful could enter the Seven Heavens and dwell in the light of the gods. The Northman could be a Manderly man and hence a worshipper of the Seven, but those were long odds and Jonothor doubted that the Most Devout would look kindly on such a guess.

On the other hand, this Northman had fought valiantly in a cause blessed by the Seven and given his life for that cause. If that cause had not, strictly speaking, been his, then that made his sacrifice all the greater. Either way, Jonothor reminded himself, the salient point was that here was a man who had fought as valiantly, suffered as greatly, and died as dead as any of the Faithful of the company.

_Out upon it,_ he thought finally, having ruminated over the problem for half an hour. _What will the Most Devout do, banish me? They've done that already._ He placed his hand lightly on the Northman's face. "Oh gods," he said softly, "here lies one who fought valiantly and gave his life for a cause dear to your hearts, though he knew you not. Let not his lack of faith in you make him unworthy in your sight, we pray. Judge him justly, Father. Be merciful, Mother. Greet him as a cousin, Warrior. Welcome him as a friend, Maiden. Grant him strength, Smith. Light his way, Crone. Guide him well, Stranger. Let not the Gates of the Heavens be closed to him for his lack of belief in you, but let perpetual light shine upon him and grant him peace. This we ask in your names, almighty gods."

Jonothor stood and glanced at the Stormlander, who was looking at him in shock. "He who pays the price deserves the reward," he said firmly. "On my head be the consequences." He walked to the next bed over, this one containing a Westerman with a crushed shoulder. There were more than three hundred men in this ward, and his duty was to provide what aid and comfort he could to all of them.

XXX

_The Sack of Myr lasted four days before order was restored. The Myrish aristocracy was all but wiped out, while the merchant class was also severely reduced; the first accurate census after the Sack, conducted just over two years later, records barely a quarter of the merchant families on the census rolls before the Sack. Fortunately, although a few buildings were burned (largely to smoke out diehard resisters) the destruction of structures was limited. Also, the craftsfolk of Myr, many of them born slaves, were less affected by the Sack; indeed, many of them joined the Sunset Company and the freedmen in the general mayhem. One letter that survives in the archives of the Great Sept, written to the Most Devout by Septon Jonothor, who was the chaplain to the Stormlanders of the Company in those days, described the Myrish slaves as being "incredibly savage in their vengeance. Neither age, sex, nor condition was shown mercy, but instead were destroyed utterly, and often with great cruelty."_

_Despite being abhorrent by modern standards, and regarded in much recent scholarship as a black mark on the Sunset Company's record, it is unsound to view historical events and actors through the prism of modern morality. Under the laws of war as they existed at the time, the Company was perfectly justified in sacking Myr, as they had taken it by storm after it had resisted them. Furthermore, for the common soldiers of the Company, and for any army of the time, wages were so low and so irregularly paid that they relied on plunder to survive, much less to benefit from their military service. Only the Iron Bank of Braavos could afford to regularly pay an army for any length of time and even then the armies they could pay were not very large. The contract under which the Company conquered Pentos on Braavos' behalf was very much an anomaly in the Narrow Sea world of the late two hundreds and early three hundreds._

\- _Chasing Dragons: The Sunset Company Reexamined_ by Maester Hendricus, published 1539 AC


	27. Chapter 27: Long Live the King

A sennight after the Sack had ended, the city of Myr was more or less restored. Those buildings that had been burned had yet to be replaced and the subsequent gaps in the streetfronts stood out like missing teeth in a jaw, but the bodies had been burned or dumped in the harbor, the bloodstains had been washed away, and at least some of the damage to buildings had been patched up. There was still much to do before the city was restored to its former prosperity.

But today that work was halted, for today was a day of great ceremony. The soldiery that had sacked the city and then put it back in order now stood at attention on the Street of Magisters, the great thoroughfare that led from the Great Eastern Gate to the Palace of Order and presented arms as the procession marched past them under a cloudy sky.

First came a score of men from the Iron Legion, who had claimed the right to lead the parade on account of their being the first to successfully breach the walls. The front rank of ten men carried spear, shield, and shortsword, while the second rank carried a crossbow each at slope arms. Their marching was somewhat ragged, but each man walked proudly with a triumphant gleam in his eye.

Behind them came three horsemen, carrying the banners. Ser Lyle Crakehall rode in the center, bearing the sunset sky and impaled dragon's-head of the Sunset Company. On his right rode Ser Brus Buckler, carrying the crowned stag, black on yellow, of the Baratheons. On the left was Captain Akhollo of the freedmen. The former slave was still re-learning how to ride, but he had refused to do anything else and so he rode carrying the new standard of the Iron Legion, a red chain being broken by a black spear on a field of cloth-of-gold looted from the stores of the Weaver's Guild. The freedmen lining the processional route cheered themselves hoarse as the banners went by and Akhollo was bright-eyed with pride and joy.

Behind the banners, and riding alone on his massive charger, came Robert Baratheon. He was in full armor save for his antlered helmet. In his right hand he held his great hammer, the pommel resting on his hip, and the breeze made the yellow and black cloak fastened at his neck with a simple brooch of unadorned silver flutter at the flanks of his horse. Robert had stoutly resisted making "any stuff and fuss" about his coronation, but long argument had worn him down, and now he was determined to play his part with appropriate gravity.

Behind him came his five captains, also in full armor save for their helmets. Ser Lyn Corbray, his sharp-featured handsomeness almost cruel. Ser Brynden Tully, his craggy face calmly purposeful. Victarion Greyjoy, self-consciously grave as only the young can be. Ser Jaime Lannister, smiling so broadly his face seemed like to split. And on the right, in the place of honor, Eddard Stark, his solemn face set in the fashion of a man faced with great ceremony and determined to do it _properly_.

Bringing up the rear were seven knights representing each of the contingents who had followed Robert in the conquest of the city. Ser Gerion Lannister of the Westerlands, Ser Willam 'Silveraxe' Fell of the Stormlands, Ser Mychel Egen of the Vale, Ser Harrold Grey of the Riverlands, Ser Wendel Manderly of the North, Ser Colin Dunn of the Reach, and Ser Harras Harlaw of the Ironborn, all fully armored and carrying lances streaming with pennons.

Eventually the procession came to the great square before the Palace of Order, with the great steps leading up to the doors of the Palace. At the top of those stairs was the chair that had been used by the Gonfalonier of the Conclave and that had been appropriated by Rhaegar Targaryen during his undeclared rule, while at the base of the steps was Septon Jonothor, wearing his plain robes; more elaborate vestments had been found but he had flatly refused them. He was a septon, he had said, not a mummer. Beside him stood High Priest Kalarus of the Red Temple, a stern-faced fireplug of a man whose brocaded formal robes looked out of place on him, like a gown on a prizefighter.

"Who comes?" asked Jonothor in a voice pitched to carry across the square and into the streets around it, where heralds would relay his words to the crowd.

"It is Robert, of House Baratheon, who comes," answered Ser Brus Buckler.

"Why has he come to this place at this hour?" asked Kalarus, following the script that he, Jonothor, Maester Gordon, and Maester Antony had devised for the ceremony two days ago.

"He comes to be crowned King of Myr, Protector of the Realm, Defender of the Faiths, and Shield of Freedom," answered Ser Lyle Crakehall.

"By what right does he claim the title of King?" asked Kalarus.

Akhollo lifted his chin. "By right of conquest," he answered, speaking carefully through his thick accent, "for he has conquered Myr, and claims it as his lawful prize."

Jonothor and Kalarus raised their hands and addressed the crowd. "People of Myr!" they proclaimed. "We here present to you Robert of House Baratheon. Is it your will to take him as your king, your captain, and your judge, professing homage, faith, and allegiance to him and his heirs after him, for so long as his line endures?"

The acclamation was thunderous, as more than ten thousand people roared their approval, and the soldiers drummed the butts of their polearms against the ground like hailstones.

Jonothor and Kalarus lowered their hands and turned back to the procession. "Approach, Robert of House Baratheon." Robert dropped his reins onto the neck of his horse, swung his leg over the pommel of his saddle, and slid to the ground with a clank of armor. As the freedmen and the standard bearers moved aside and the captains dismounted, he strode forward, his hammer still resting on his hip, until he stood before Septon Jonothor. He knelt, and lowered his hammer to the ground, looking the Septon and the High Priest in the face.

"Robert of House Baratheon," Septon Jonothor intoned, "is it your will to be crowned king?"

"It is," Robert answered, his voice solemn for once in his life.

"Do you swear to uphold the rights and liberties of your people, and to defend them against all their enemies, wheresoever they may arise?"

"I swear."

"Do you swear to cause law and justice to be executed in all your judgements, tempered with mercy, as you would have the Father judge you?"

"I swear."

"Do you swear to protect the several faiths of all your peoples, to uphold the rights of their clergy, and to defend their sacred things and holy places as you would defend your own?"

"I swear." The Northmen and the Rhllorites in the crowd rumbled approval. They knew that Eddard and High Priest Kalarus had insisted on that particular oath being inserted into the ceremony, as a hedge against the future.

"Do you swear to especially abhor the evil of slavery, to forbid it in your realm, and to wage war without mercy upon it wheresoever it may be found?"

"I swear." The freedmen gave a short shout of approval, like the bark of some immense hound, and beat spear and pike butts against the ground in a dull thunderclap.

"Then rise, Robert of House Baratheon, and assume your throne." Jonothor and Kalarus turned and led Robert up the stairs, Jonothor chanting a psalm to the Seven which was taken up by the Seven-worshippers in the crowd; Kalarus sang a hymn to the Lord of Light that was likewise taken up by the Red God's devotees. At last, Robert reached the throne and seated himself in it, while Septon Jonothor took the crown, a simple, unadorned circlet of hammered gold, and raised it high. "I crown thee, Robert of House Baratheon, King of Myr, Protector of the Realm, Defender of the Faiths, and Shield of Freedom," he intoned, lowering the crown onto Robert's head. Lifting his hands away and turning to the square Jonothor and Kalarus lifted up their voices. "People of Myr!" they roared. "Behold your king!

Every person in the square knelt, even the Iron Legion, who had reserved the right to stand in every circumstance save this. "**Long live the King!**" they thundered in a chorus that made birds take to the air and rattled windows in their frames. "**Long live the King! Long live the King!**"

XXX

Eddard Stark strode through what had been the Palace of Order and was now the Palace of Justice. The revels that had turned it into a combined brothel and tavern of disorder had left it a proper mess, but the last of the clutter was being swept up and carted out, and the offices of the Myrish judges had been restored to some semblance of order as the offices of the Kingdom of Myr's civil service. The statues and paintings and tapestries that had decorated the corridors had been either destroyed or stolen by the soldiers that had occupied it, leaving it pleasingly austere to Eddard's eye, although it retained its grandiose façade and overpoweringly cavernous entrance hall. Fortunately, the Palace's store of parchment, ink, and quills had been largely spared by the rampaging soldiery, although it had apparently taken hours to gather up all the quills that had been thrown into the air. The ledger books had been strewn about the place in various states of damage, but those that had remained intact were being scraped clean and repurposed. In short, all the necessary tools of government were present and in order. All that was missing was a government.

And it fell to Eddard to fill the gap. As Hand of the King, an appointment so recent that he didn't even have a badge of office yet, Eddard was responsible for the government of the new Kingdom of Myr in the King's absence, and Robert had been called away from the city. Eddard had argued bitterly against it, but Robert had been adamant. "The people need to see me, Ned," Robert had explained, pointing out the window at the city, and the country beyond Myr's walls. "We're going to ask them to bend the knee to us, and eventually to fight and die for us. They won't do that for a stranger. They need to see that we're different from the magisters, that we _deserve_ to be followed as the magisters don't."

Eddard had asked to go along, in order to hone his skills, but Robert had refused him. For one thing, as he pointed out, to have both the King and the Hand going on the same progress defeated the purpose of the King having a Hand in the first place. For another, as Robert had said in private, Eddard was the only man he trusted enough to take command in his absence. And in any case, Robert had added with a smile, it wasn't as if he was taking all of the best swords with him; Eddard would have plenty of good men to practice his sword-craft against in the time he could spare from restoring the city and forming the government of the new kingdom.

So Robert had taken two thousand foot and eight hundred horse, with Lyn, Jaime, Akhollo, and Maester Gordon as his lieutenants, and embarked on a progress that was to carry him through his new lands. First he was going south to the town of Sirmium, which Eddard understood to be the southern districts' equivalent to Ceralia in the north. Eight hundred infantry and four hundred cavalry would be left there under Lyn's command as Warden of the Southern Marches, with a charge to bring the southern provinces under the King's Peace, defend them against Lyseni or Tyroshi incursions and launch reprisal raids in the event of provocation. Eddard could only hope that Lyn would find it a sufficient force; to spare even that much was to strip the trained garrison of Myr city to a minimum, and raising and training new companies of the Iron Legion from the freedmen would take time and resources that were likely to be rare. And if he was any judge, the Lyseni and the Tyroshi would start to probe the frontier sooner rather than later.

From Sirmium, the progress would turn northeast and make for the town of Campora, where Ser Brus Buckler would be installed as Warden of the Eastern Marches with four hundred foot and one hundred horse and the same mandate as Lyn did; the hope was that, given the distance between the new kingdom's eastern border and the zone of Volantene control, Ser Brus would have an easier job than Lyn despite his fewer resources. From Campora, the progress would proceed to Ceralia, link up with the garrison that had been left there under the command of Ser Richard Shermer, who had been a bored officer of the Oldtown City Watch before he joined the company and lost a hand at Tara, and then proceed down the Great North Road to return to Myr. Along the way he would be collecting information on the state of the kingdom's lands and the ownership thereof, with a view to laying the groundwork for a proper cadastral survey and eventually granting lands to those of the company who merited them.

The whole journey was likely to take several months, barring delays, and while it was going on Eddard was expected to finish the restoration and repair of Myr city, form a government almost entirely from scratch, and generally exercise the right to bind and loose in the name of King Robert, the First of His Name, etc., etc.

It was a daunting proposition. Eddard had one fully qualified maester in the person of Grand Maester Antony, whose specialty was in healing not administration. He had Ser Brynden Tully, the newly named Master of Soldiers, to command the garrison and oversee the raising, training and organization of the Royal Army. He had Victarion Greyjoy, the new Master of Ships, for the next four days before he and his fellow Ironborn set off up the coastal road towards Pentos to retrieve the longships that the Ironborn had left at Mytila, pacifying the coastal lands as he went. He had Ser Wendel Manderly for Master of Coin, the which office he had gained thanks to having received some tutelage in the art of finance from his father, who was the richest lord in the North aside from the Starks. He had Ser Gerion Lannister as Master of Whispers, who held his office thanks to the contacts he had developed on his previous travels around the Narrow Sea. He had Ser Mychel Egen, who as Master of Law was charged with keeping order within the city and developing the legal code of the new kingdom. He had Franlan Shipwright, the newly-created Lord Captain of the Port, who had authority over all matters pertaining to the safety and good order of the harbor, the building and maintenance of ships, and the policing of the harborside districts in the name of His Grace King Robert.

What he didn't have was a large body of men who were literate and numerate. Literacy was rare among the smallfolk in Westeros and in Myr it had been against the law to teach slaves to read except as necessary to carry out their duties. Those with noble blood tended to be more literate, but the second and third sons who had followed the Sunset Company to Essos were rarely more literate than was required to read or write a letter; the path to fame and fortune, for such men, was through the use of sword and lance, not of quill and ink. There had been a substantial number of scribe-slaves in Myr, but many of them had been targeted during the Sack as accomplices of the magisters who had relied on them to, among other things, draw up bills of sale and keep records of which slave belonged to which master. The survivors were almost pathetically eager to offer their services in the hopes of gaining protection, but there weren't enough of them to form even half of a civil service.

Nor did he have a legal framework to operate within, he reflected as he entered what had been the office of the Gonfalonier of the Conclave and was now the office of the Hand of the King. Clearly the laws of Myr could not stand; the institution of slavery was too tightly woven into them to be allowed. Nor, Eddard knew, could the laws of Westeros be imported in their entirety. Those laws had been made for a different people in a different land under different circumstances. What was needed was an entirely new code of laws to govern the new realm, one that took the best laws of Westeros and the best laws of Myr and forged them into a new creation.

All things considered, he thought as he surveyed his new domain, it was a good thing that he had sent word to the Citadel asking for them to dispatch as many maesters as they could. He, and the new kingdom, would sorely need them.

XXX

The exiled Westerosi stood in ranks before the pyre that had been built on the sea-strand just outside the city of Volantis. On one side stood the sailors of the Royal Fleet, arrayed by ship's companies with their captains at their head. On the other were the knights and men-at-arms who had followed the Targaryens into exile, with their swords drawn and held before them in salute, catching the rays of the setting sun like slivers of fire.

Standing before them, halfway between the men and the pyre, were the captains of the exiles. Ser Gyles Rambton, his sea-weathered face mournful as an old hound's. Ser Marq Grafton, stoically unreadable. Ser Arthur Dayne, who was not weeping only because he had exhausted his tears. Ser Barristan Selmy, his square face somber. Magister Rahtheon, downcast as if he were burying his own son, while behind him his daughter Praela wept openly. And, in the middle of them all, was Viserys Targaryen, his round child's face composed except for the trembling lower lip that he couldn't quite conceal and dressed all in plain black except for the three-headed dragon embroidered in crimson thread on the front of this tunic.

On the pyre itself rested Rhaegar, the First of His Name, King of Myr, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm. He had died the day before, barely four hours after the exiles had landed in Volantis and taken up residence in one of the five warehouses along the Volantene waterfront that Magister Rahtheon partly owned. In King's Landing the Silent Sisters would have embalmed his corpse and he would have lain in state in the Great Sept for seven times seven days before his body was given to the flames with as many of the great lords of the realm as could be gathered in attendance and the High Septon leading the service assisted by the Most Devout. But there were no Silent Sisters in Volantis, and aside from the exiles there were barely two thousand people present. Most of them were Volantene smallfolk and merchants come to gawk at the foreigners, but there were a pair of noblemen from the Old Blood of Volantis and their retinues, old trading partners of Rahtheon's who attended out of respect for their partner. And instead of the High Septon and the Most Devout there was only the Royal Fleet's chaplain, a rotund old man who said the funeral service in a quavering voice that not even the most generous listener could call dignified.

Ser Arthur Dayne, his heart burning with dull anger that the finest scion of House Targaryen should be commended to the gods in such a paltry state as this, stepped forward as the septon gave the final blessing and lowered his crystal, with the other captains and their prince following him. As one man they lowered the torches they each held in their hands and thrust them into the pyre, which caught light with a gratifying speed as the flames fastened onto the oil-drenched wood. As the smoke and the overcooked-pork scent of burning flesh began to rise, the captains stepped back and drew their own swords, holding them at the salute as their king was carried home to the gods on fiery wings.

As the flames began to die, Ser Arthur sheathed Dawn, provoking a manifold rush of steel hissing against wood and leather as just over five hundred swords were sheathed. "The King is dead!" Ser Arthur shouted over the crackle-and-pop of the still-burning wood. He turned to Viserys, who was now looking at him with an expression of mingled grief and mild fear on his face. "Long live the King!" Ser Arthur shouted, and bent the knee, inciting a rush of rustling and clanking as two and a half thousand men, the last followers of House Targaryen, knelt before His Grace, Viserys the Third of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm.

"Long live the King!" they roared. "Long live the King! Long live the King!"


	28. Chapter 28: The Stag and the Viper

**Meanwhile, and over the next several months, in Westeros . . .**

The lords who had assembled in King Stannis' tent rose and bowed as the King walked in. Stannis still had a bruise down one side of his face where an Uller man's mace had caught him a glancing blow on the visor, but otherwise he looked as fresh as any man could be expected to only two days after their first battle.

His captains were in a similar state. The sling holding Lord Abram Gaunt's left arm and the row of stitches on Lord Trebor Jordayne's face were the most obvious tokens of the battle, but all the lords and knights present had their share of the scrapes, bruises, and cuts that were an inescapable side-effect of fighting for one's life.

"My lords," Stannis began, still standing. "Before we begin I must thank you all again for the good service you did me and my house in the recent battle. Your valor and prowess will be remembered." As he sat down, allowing the other lords to sit as well, he continued. "The purpose of this meeting is to determine exactly what took place during the battle, what we did well, and what we can do better next time. I wish to make it clear," Stannis swept the table with a level stare, "that I expect _complete_ honesty from you all, about your own actions as much as the actions of others. No man will be punished for admitting to fault here, nor will any man be punished based solely on any evidence presented here." As the lords nodded, some willingly and others reluctantly, he sat back in his chair. "I believe we all agree, my lords, that we owe a great debt to our friends of Dorne and their outriders. But for their scouting, we would not have known that the Red Viper would attempt an ambush."

"Aye," said Bronze Yohn Royce, who commanded the Valemen with his lieutenant, Ser Symond Templeton. "And that made all the difference. If we hadn't known that ambush was coming, we'd have been pushed into the river."

"Like as not," agreed Gulian Swann, who commanded the Stormlanders. "As it was we were ready for them, and we were able to turn and face them before they could get into us."

Gulian's lieutenant, Ralph Buckler, raised a finger. "I noticed that the rebels opposing us seemed too few to make a serious attack," he noted. "If we had tried to simply turn back along our line of march and cut our way out, there wouldn't have been enough of them to stop us."

"I noticed as much at the front of the column," said Jason Mallister, who commanded the Riverlanders. "If we had tried to push on towards Sunspear, we could have cut our way through them without too much difficulty."

"Until they came at our rear, anyway," Ser Stevron Frey noted dourly. "Nothing more excited than a Dornishman trying to take someone from behind."

"But of course," said urbane Trebor Jordayne, second-in-command of the loyal Dornish. "That way we can have all the fun of taking you without having to look at your ugly faces." A round of chuckles from around the table awarded the point to Trebor, while Stevron flushed. "And making only light attacks on our rear and vanguard may have been deliberate," the Dornish lord went on. "If the rebel had succeeded in overwhelming our center, then the rearguard and vanguard would have been isolated from each other and would have to retreat in different directions along the line of the river. In that case, he could have turned upon each at leisure and devoured them without them being able to come to each other's support."

"I agree," said Anders Yronwood. "It makes good tactical sense, if you're sure that your army can pull it off."

"I thought he was attacking us unusually hard," said Abram Gaunt, who held command of the Royal Brigade. "Came at us like a tidal wave. Fortunately our foot was able to brace themselves or we'd have been run over." The grizzled old lord hesitated, and then stood and looked at Stannis. "I owe you an apology, Your Grace. When you ordered that the lords and knights of the Royal Brigade fight dismounted I obeyed because you ordered it, not because I agreed with you. If we hadn't had their leadership among the foot, they would likely have broken. You were right and I was wrong." Abram bowed shortly.

Stannis nodded in reply. "Think nothing of it, my lord," he replied. "You obeyed, and that is the important part. I will not hold a man's reservations against him, so long as he obeys orders." He leaned forward. "In fact, I must commend you, my lord, for the valor you showed in the shield-wall. The integrity of the line owed much to your skill and your example." The other lords rapped their knuckles on the light travelling table in applause as Abram flushed in pleased embarrassment. "So," Stannis continued. "The rebel made holding attacks against our right and left, allowing them routes of retreat that would have proved disadvantageous, and made his main effort against our center. I must conclude that his primary target was me."

"I agree, Your Grace," said Anders. "If Oberyn had killed or captured you, he could have won his rebellion then and there. I beg Your Grace's pardon, but I think we all can guess what would have happened in the aftermath." There was a moment of silence as those present contemplated a future without Stannis, even if the Royal Army had managed to fight its way out of Dorne. Every lord jockeying for position, Tywin Lannister calling his banners to protect the reign of his grandson against all comers, the Dornish allowed to break away from the Realm as the royal government slowed to a crawl, and the peace of the Realm hanging on the statecraft and wisdom of Jon Arryn and the breath of a baby still at the breast.

"Gods be thanked it did not come to pass," said Ser Wyllam Nayland, the Royal Castellan of Rosby and second-in-command of the Royal Brigade.

"The gods and the spearmen of the Royal Brigade," said Ser Cortnay Penrose. "The rebel must have been supremely confident trying to attack formed heavy infantry with Dornish cavalry." Dornish horsemen almost uniformly were a weight class or two below Reacher and Stormland knights, courtesy of their warmer climate and lighter horses; even on the Marches the average Dornish knight was closer in equipment to a Northern heavy cavalryman than a proper knight.

"So our center repelled them," said Stevron, "And then the order came to counterattack." He glanced at Stannis. "Forgive me, Your Grace, but that order was premature. The center had repulsed their enemies but we on the right were still stuck in with them; we _couldn't _advance."

"Likewise on the left," said Ralph Buckler. "Those Greenblood men might have been levies, but they fought like wolves."

Stannis nodded. "The order to counterattack was ill-advised; I admit it," he said. "When the center advanced without the flanks advancing alongside it we became exposed on either side, at which point they turned inward and began to collapse on us. And then the rebel charged our front again and broke through them."

"That was the dangerous part, right there," said Wyllam. "If we hadn't had the Stormguard backing us up, that breakthrough in the front would have been a lot worse. Speaking of which, I need to commend one of my knights to Your Grace. Ser Harry Flash was commanding the platoon just to the right of the breach. When it was forced open he and his sergeant stepped into it and managed to keep the Dornishmen to a trickle until the Stormguard were able to plug the gap. Killed four Uller men himself, easy as breathing, according to his sergeant."

Stannis nodded. "I will arrange some suitable reward," he said. "I must also thank my Stormguard," he added, turning to Cortnay. "They handled the breakthrough splendidly. I am told that one of the men who was killed in that clash was Lord Uller himself."

Trebor nodded. "I saw the body and it was old Harmen alright," he said. "I'd know his face anywhere, even with a lance-point through it."

"And also His Grace comported himself well during the fighting," said Stevron, a tone of fawningness creeping into his voice.

Stannis arched an eyebrow. "How would you know, when you weren't there to see?" he asked pointedly. After making Stevron wilt a little under his cool stare, Stannis had mercy on him and shrugged. "I comported myself well enough," he said, "but the brunt of the fighting was borne by my Stormguard, and borne well. I will not steal credit from men who deserve it more than I."

Gulian Swann nodded slightly. Bronze Yohn steepled his hands in front of a small smile. Jason Mallister stroked his beard. Abram Gaunt rubbed his thumb over the knuckle of his forefinger. They had all known that their king was no coward; they wouldn't have gone along with his plan of deliberately springing the ambush otherwise. But to have a king who was brave not only in battle but in the council chamber . . . that was rare indeed. And quite gratifying, for him to trust that their esteem of him did not need continual stoking, like a blacksmith's forge.

"I wonder why the rebel himself did not lead that assault?" Anders mused. "Could he have been wounded in the first attack?"

"Possibly,"Gulian answered. "Or he could have been commanding from the rear."

Anders shook his head. "You don't know Oberyn as I do," he said. "The man never finds a fight without throwing himself into it headfirst."

"Whether Oberyn was injured or not is irrelevant," Stannis said decisively. "He was able to break off the engagement and make good his escape." His lips twisted in what could be called a self-deprecating smile if it weren't so much like a grimace. "I still believe that we could have pursued him but, upon consideration, I agree with Ser Cortnay and Lord Anders that it would have been too chancy an endeavor to justify."

"Especially since we've accomplished our primary objective," Anders said. "The road to Sunspear lies open before us. A sennight's march, maybe two, and we will be able to put Sunspear in order and go about crushing the Viper with no difficulties behind us."

"Gods be merciful and make it so," said Ser Symond Templeton. All present joined him in signing themselves with the seven-pointed star. "But what if Prince Doran either refuses to admit us or is incapable of doing so? I mean no insult, but all reports agree that he has not been himself since the Red Viper rebelled."

"If Doran doesn't admit us, then we shall have to negotiate with Princess-Consort Mellario," Stannis replied. "By all reports, she seems to have assumed power in Sunspear. And quite well at that."

"Really?" asked Jason in a surprised tone. "Can she do that?"

Trebor cocked an eyebrow. "She is the Princess-Consort, and of sound mind and body," he said coolly. "In the event of Prince Doran's incapacitation, the power of the Prince passes to her, since Princess Arianne is still a minor. Surely you must know that we do things differently here in Dorne, Lord Mallister."

"Yes, but . . . "Jason trailed off, knowing that saying _hearing is different from seeing_ would sound as lame in his mouth as it did in his mind.

Stannis tapped a fingernail against the table. "In any case, we must needs prepare to continue our march to Sunspear. I am told that our wounded can all be ready to travel by the day after tomorrow, but . . . "

XXX

Ricasso was a maester, not a minstrel, but he dabbled in poetry when his duties allowed. And looking at King Stannis meeting with Princess Mellario, he knew he would have fodder for a dozen poems based on the similarities and differences between them. On the one hand, there was Princess Mellario, slender and graceful, draped in loose robes of orange silk painted with the sun-and-spear of the Martells, haughtily beautiful with her high cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes reinforced by the gravity of her thirty-seven years. On the other, King Stannis, broad-shouldered and strongly built, clad in armor covered with a yellow linen tabard embroidered with the black crowned stag of his house, his face grimly set so that the light beard he was beginning to cultivate bristled as best it could.

The contrast they offered was startling, but even more startling was the similarity that Ricasso could sense in both of them. The shadows under Mellario's eyes, concealed by cleverly applied cosmetics, and the lines already setting in on Stannis' face, both spoke of heavy responsibilities suddenly assumed and stoically burdened, while the way Stannis gripped the hilt of his sword and the way Mellario spread her hands on the arms of the throne revealed what they chose to base their strength on. For Mellario, Ricasso knew, it was the House that she had married into; its antiquity, its reputation, and its long line of heroes and heroines. For Stannis, it was his own strength and his absolute trust in himself to meet any challenge with all the craft and might he could command; a natural enough attitude in a man just shy of his twenty-first nameday.

Ricasso could only hope that the two could see their similarities more than their differences; especially since they were meeting in private except for him and Stannis' stern-looking Lord Commander, Ser Cortnay Penrose. The official reception had already taken place and the audience, where Stannis would decree the new course of royal policy in Dorne, was to take place tomorrow. The purpose of this conversation was to negotiate that policy.

"I wish to begin," Stannis said finally, "by saying that Prince Doran cannot continue as Prince of Dorne. What I saw of him at the reception confirmed it in my mind." Doran had attended the reception, under the influence of a stimulant, and had retired as early as was decently allowable. Even dosed, he had been dull-eyed and his speech had been soft and stilted, a far cry from the rich, flowing baritone that he had had before the rebellion.

Mellario tilted her head to one side. "For now, at least," she conceded, "but he need not always be so. Maester Caelotte tells me that his condition improves daily. In time he will be able to resume his duties."

Stannis shook his head. "His recovery will not suffice," he said bluntly. "I require that Dorne be ruled by one who can maintain the King's Peace in the face of all hazards, and in case of catastrophe provide effective leadership until royal aid arrives. Only one Martell has been able to do so, and it is not Doran."

Mellario blinked, and then smiled slightly. "You have an odd sense of flattery, Your Grace."

"The truth is not flattery," Stannis replied. "You have proved yourself worthy to rule Dorne in my name until Doran's heir comes of age. That said," he frowned briefly, "those Houses that have declared their loyalty will need a greater voice in the running of Dorne to compensate them for their loyalty. At the very least the regency council will need to include Lord Yronwood."

Mellario flipped her hand. "Like as not," she said, "but the size and nature of such a council can wait until my goodbrother is brought to heel."

"Which, with any luck, should be sometime in the next few months," Stannis said. "With your forces added to mine, we should be able to push the rebels into the deep deserts easily enough, and then we can send our men in to root them out."

"That may prove difficult," Mellario observed. "The desert has eaten royal armies before."

Stannis smiled grimly. "Not one that I have commanded," he said.

XXX

_The year 286 has just dawned. The Red Viper Rebellion is just under a year old._

_After his defeat on the banks of the Greenblood, Oberyn Martell, the Red Viper, takes his fight to the desert. Royal forces pursue him, bringing fire and sword in their wake. The war becomes an affair of raid and counter-raid, of ambush and reprisal, of destroyed wells and populations sent to the Greenblood to be held prisoner in guarded camps. While royalist soldiers scour the desert, Ironborn reavers under the command of Quellon Greyjoy and his son Euron sweep the coast. Atrocities are committed by land and sea._

_Oberyn himself fights for every inch he can. After being driven from Vaith by overwhelming numbers, he divides his forces in order for them to more effectively harry the royal forces. King Stannis, in response, divides his armies into 'hunting parties', each charged with killing every rebel they can find._

_After months of searching, a 'hunting party' finds evidence that Oberyn has passed nearby, and sets out in pursuit . . ._

\- The opening crawl from _The Red Viper: Blood and Sand_, the third season of a popular television series that depicts a fictionalized version of Oberyn Martell's life and which aired in 1987 AC. Claims that production of the series was partially funded by the Sons of the Sand, an extremist nationalist group, remain officially unfounded.

_At least it's cool in here, _Ser Rickon Riverbend thought as he knelt in the Dornish sept. _Gods know that not much else about it is right._

The village of Palm Spring, so named for the date palms that grew around a spring that formed a respectable pond, boasted a small sept on account of it being home to some two hundred souls, but it was evidently little-used and had been designed by someone with tastes that leaned towards the heretical. There was a layer of dust on the altars of the Warrior, the Crone, and the Stranger, and the layout of the altars was wrong as well. Instead of being separated into their own alcoves, as was proper, the altars were grouped by twos, the Father with the Mother, the Warrior with the Maiden, and the Crone with the Smith, while the Stranger's altar sat by itself. What was more, instead of wearing a properly beatific expression the Mother looked almost as stern as the Father.

Ser Rickon scowled for a moment, and then cleared his mind with an effort of will. Heretical or not, it was still a sept, and he needed to pray.

He had been a landed knight's bastard son, trained to arms out of a sense of paternal responsibility that had come late to his father and had probably been spurred by the fact that his trueborn son was a sour and small-souled man. By dint of hard work and uncomplaining service he had managed to earn a place in the guard of Lord Darry. He had been passed over for promotion and reward in favor of men with better names than Rivers, but his skill at arms and chivalrous conduct had won him a modicum of respect.

And then the Rebellion had come along and given him his chance. The hedgerows had given him a reputation for valor and two captured knights whose ransoms had provided him with a new courser, a fine suit of plate armor, and a better sword than any he had previously owned. But an even sweeter reward than the ransoms had been respect; men who had scorned him for his bastard birth had offered him a place at their fire, bought him wine, even tried to claim his friendship. No less a knight than the Blackfish himself had asked him to join the Sunset Company on its venture!

That offer he had refused; justice aside the gods could not look with favor upon Robert Baratheon, who was as foolish as he was vulgar. The sheer arrogance it must have taken to forswear the crown that the gods had placed on his head and forsake the responsibilities of kingship was mind-boggling. Not for nothing was pride accounted the deadliest of sins.

On top of which, the Book of the Father clearly stated _vengeance is mine_. For mortal men to usurp that power smacked not just of pride, but hubris.

So Rickon had stayed in Westeros, and quickly found himself lordless; Lord Darry had needed to make room in his service for a bastard nephew, or some such, and Rickon had been the lowest-ranked and most junior of his sworn swords. At least the old man had been apologetic about the necessity, and gracious enough to give him a purse of silver and a letter of recommendation with his seal to present to any lord who Rickon approached. But with the end of the Rebellion the lords had no need of another sword, even one as good and well-mannered as Rickon, even with so many fools rushing off to the East to find glory or an early grave, and so he had found himself a hedge knight at the age of twenty-eight.

The first thing he had done was find a master herald and change his name from Rivers to Riverbend; he could not entirely escape the stain of bastardy, but he would change as much of it as he could. That had taken much of the purse Lord Darry had given him, and his horse had steadily eaten through much of the rest. He had been down to two silver stags and a handful of coppers when the call went out for men to put down a Dornish rebellion.

He had ridden to King's Landing the next day and taken the King's star; a true knight fought in his king's service when called upon, without reservation. He had done good service at the Greenblood with the Royal Brigade, and when the rebel had taken to the desert he had been tapped to lead a 'hunting party'; a column of two to three-score knights, light horse, and mounted archers that operated as an independent unit that pursued the rebels by whatever means it's commander deemed necessary. King Stannis, in his wisdom, had given his officers considerable latitude in how they went about running the rebels to earth; almost the only injunction laid on their initiative was that those Dornishmen who submitted to the King's Justice and kept his Peace were to be protected to the last drop of blood or bloodily avenged, as circumstances dictated.

By the gods' mercy he was here under the former of those circumstances; what the rebels left of their victims made hard viewing even for seasoned veterans. In fact, he had been told that a man who dwelt in this village had information for him.

As he was saying a prayer to the Warrior for the skill to lead his men well (he knew that he did not lack for courage) the door to the vestry opened and soft footsteps announced the coming of a man who knelt beside him. As Rickon finished praying, the man, hooded and cloaked even in the heat of the Dornish desert, turned his head.

"Ser knight, I have information," he said softly. Rickon made a face; even the _language_ was different here, with the stretching, rolling contortions it put words through. It made him long for the true speech of his homeland, that lovely land of broad fields and green forests watered by the mighty Trident, so different from this place with its burning sands and bleak mountains and anemic streams that the locals insisted were rivers.

"Speak, then, in the king's name," he said, giving the countersign. It was crude, the fat, bald man who had taught him the password that royal informants would use had said, but it had the advantage of being simple. Rickon wouldn't have known, as he had little stomach for such games; give him a good horse, a strong lance, and a level field any day.

"Rebel horsemen came through this village last night," the informant whispered. "They stopped only to water their horses and themselves, but I heard one of them say that it was not too far to their camp. Two hours hard riding and no more."

Rickon fingered the small crystal he had pulled out from under his breastplate. "Any idea of where this camp might be?" he asked softly.

"There is an _arroyo_, a ravine, some twenty miles from here," the informant whispered. "The spring there is too small for herds of goats or sheep, so we of this village do not go there, but it might be sufficient for a score and a half of horsemen who were careful not to let themselves or their horses drink too much."

Rickon nodded. "Can you lead us to this ravine?" he inquired.

The informant spread his hands. "Ser knight, most in this village are loyal subjects of His Grace, but no one loves a tell-tale. To do even this much is to put my life at risk. If I were to lead you to these rebels I would be dead before the sennight is out. Come, and hearken," the informant stood and walked up to the Warrior's altar; Rickon followed and winced to see him drawing a map in the dust with his fingertip; it wasn't strictly against the laws of the Faith, but it didn't do to show the gods disrepsect. "Ride out on the road towards Hellholt," the informant whispered," and when you have gone some six miles, stop and turn due north, so. From that point it is perhaps two hours fast ride for a single man, and you will come upon the ravine from the side."

"Does it open at either end?" Rickon asked, committing the crude map to memory.

"Aye," said the Dornishman. "But the ways in and out are narrow; only ten sheep or so may pass abreast. Perhaps one or two men on horseback, if they wish to move at speed?" He waggled his hand to indicate uncertainty.

Rickon finished committing the map to memory and swept it away with the flat of his hand. "Will you be safe here, after we leave?" he asked, as he continued to brush the dust off the altar.

"With the gods' help, yes," said the Dornishman. "But all things are in their hands and they help best those who help themselves."

Rickon nodded, the saying was much the same in the Riverlands, and fished a small medallion stamped with the royal arms on one side and a lidless eye on the other out of his belt pouch. "If you must flee then get yourself to Vaith, or Godsgrace, or Sunspear," he said, "and present this to any king's officer. Protection will be provided, and passage out of Dorne."

The Dornishman accepted the medallion and pressed it to his forehead. "Gods bless His Grace, and the Warrior guide your hand, ser knight," he said, slipping away and back to the vestry.

Four hours later, Rickon and his hunting party were riding across the desert, a score of loyal Dornish light horsemen, what they called _jinetes_, half as many mounted archers, and ten knights with their squires, who were armed after the fashion of the _jinetes_ with light ring-mail shirts under their surcoats, a shield, a sword, and a pair of javelins. The knights, squires, and mounted archers were riding in a loose double line abreast that alternated squires with mounted archers and held the knights as a reserve, while half of the _jinetes_ formed a scouting screen and the rest covered the flanks. Every eye scanned the horizon and the crests of the low dunes they were riding through; the rebels fought from ambush wherever they could, and what they did to prisoners was enough to make even the boldest man wary.

The _jinetes _out in front suddenly stopped just short of the crest of the next dune, raising their spears straight up in the signal to halt, and after hurried consultation one wheeled his horse around and trotted up to Rickon. "The ravine is up ahead, ser," he said, his accent less pronounced than the informant's had been; he was Stony Dornish, from the Fowler lands, lent with the rest of his bandera by Randyll Tarly, who was holding the western edge of the desert. "Just beyond this next dune there is a gentle downslope to a flat stretch that reaches for about a long bowshot and a half, and through this the ravine runs. Both the slope and the flat can be easily passed by men on horseback. There is no cover to approach by stealth."

Rickon bared his teeth. The moment he went over that crest, then, he would be spotted. Assuming, of course, that he hadn't been already, although his men took steps to limit their visibility. Their metal was either carefully dulled and browned or covered, and whenever they rode near a hill or dune-crest they lowered their lances and spears to the horizontal to keep them from poking over the crest and revealing them. "Are the ways out of the ravine within easy reach from here?"

"Yes, especially for men traveling at speed," the Dornishman replied. "Also, the sides of the ravine seem steep, too steep for riders."

Rickon only had to consider for a moment. Turning in the saddle, he called for his second-in-command, a Crownlander named Ser Willam Gisbourne, and the sergeant of the archers, a Stormlander from the Marches who answered to the name of Bent. "Ser Willam, take half the cavalry, and take the left end of the ravine. Block it off, keep them from escaping, and run down any who get out before we get there. I'll do the same on the right. Bent, take the archers to the edge of the ravine; your first target will be any who seem about to get away from us. Once the leakers are dealt with, turn your bows on those in the ravine."

Bent smiled evilly. "Fish in a barrel they'll be, ser, and no mistake," he said eagerly.

"Remember," Rickon said sharply, "we want prisoners to interrogate, and anyone who asks quarter is to be given it. We are not murderers, as the rebels are." Ser Willam nodded. Bent did as well, after a shrug and a muttered "Could've fooled me" earned him a scorching look.

Five minutes later, all was in readiness; the knights, squires, and _jinetes_ were deployed in two columns on either end of the formation and the archers were in a single line with their bows already strung. Turbans and headscarfs, worn as protection against the blistering Dornish sun, were stripped off and replaced with helmets, and the dull yellow kaftan that each man wore to keep the sun off his armor was rolled into a tube and stashed on the back of the saddle. Rickon took a final look up and down the line, craned his neck to check that his squire was in his proper place, and whistled sharply, gesturing with the light spear that he had taken to using in place of a knight's lance.

The hunting party came over the crest of the dune at the trot and accelerated to a fast canter on the downslope, whooping as they came; they were already in plain sight of any sentries, there was no need to try and maintain stealth. They were a long javelin cast away when the first rebel riders started to come streaming out of the ravine at either end. Rickon was dimly aware of the archers dismounting and sending their first arrows whistling away, but he ignored them as he tossed his spear into a throwing grip, stood in his stirrups, and _threw_ with all the power in his arms and back; he had taken to practicing spear-throwing from horseback after the Greenblood, where the rebel _jinetes_ had tormented the knights with showers of javelins.

His spear sank home into a magnificent coal-black horse just coming out of the ravine, which made it another four steps before collapsing with a despairing neigh, it's rider missing his opportunity to get clear of the saddle and becoming pinned under the saddle and almost a half-ton of horseflesh by his left leg. A shouted command as Rickon drew his sword sent the _jinetes_ after the men who had gotten out before the dying horse had choked the escape route and Rickon and his knights struck the two men who had gone back for their comrade and a third who had come out of the ravine to assist them like a hammer. With a shout of "Watch him!" to his squire and another of "On me!" to his knights, Rickon dismounted and went to one knee in the entrance to the ravine, his shield covering him from front knee to chin and his sword drawn back ready to stab as his knights joined him.

"Yield!" he roared over the chorus of screams that told him that the archers had reached the lip of the ravine and were picking their targets. "Yield or die!"

A cry of "Fuck you, northerner!" choked off in a gurgling scream. Rickon shook his head and rose to his feet. "Forward!" he shouted, leading his knights into the ravine.

The rebels fought valiantly, but in their light mail-shirts and brigandines they were a poor match for knights in half-plate at close quarters, especially veterans such as Rickon's men were. As Rickon tramped out of the valley cleaning his sword on a cloth taken from one of the slain rebels and feeling the sudden draining sensation that always hit him after fighting hard, he found his squire where he had left him, standing on the prone rebel's right arm. "Any trouble, Tytos?" he asked lightly.

Tytos Hill shook his head. He was a lad of fifteen, who would have been handsome in a dark and brooding sort of fashion but for the shocking burn scar that warped the left side of his face. Tytos was a poor conversationalist, being sullen, sharp-tongued, and prone to sarcasm, but his lack of graces was remedied by his martial skills, which were well-advanced for one so young. He was a decent jouster and a fair hand with a war hammer, mace, or axe, but with a sword he was a natural artist, enough so that only Rickon's greater experience allowed him to give the young Westerman the proper tutelage. "Not much any man can do in his condition," he said roughly. "But look at his surcoat, ser."

Rickon looked as he returned his sword to its sheath and felt his heart skip a beat. The sun and spear of the Martell's, encircled by a red viper with its fangs bared. Only one man in Dorne was entitled to bear those arms. Rickon looked the prisoner in his swarthy, sharp-nosed face. "What is your name, friend?" he asked courteously.

"I'm no friend of yours, lion-arse licker," the rebel spat in a voice shot through with pain that trailed off as he grimaced and clutched at his trapped leg with his left hand. Tytos lifted his mace, a two-foot long steel bar with an x-shaped cross-section formed by four flanges that flared outwards as they neared the striking end, and was about to bring it down on the rebel's good leg when Rickon reached out and grabbed him by the wrist.

Tytos glanced at him. "He would do as much to us," he said defensively, "if not worse."

"Yet we do not," Rickon said firmly. "That is how we are better than them."

Tytos subsided, grumbling, as the sergeant of the party's _jinetes_, a man named Gerris Sand who was apparently a bastard nephew of Lord Blackmont, trotted up, flourishing his bloody sword, which was slightly curved in the Dornish fashion. "None escaped, ser," he said gleefully. "The fastest made it a hundred yards. I took him from behind, _thusly_ . . ."

Rickon raised a hand. "Some other time," he said. "Do you know this man?" He gestured at the prisoner.

Gerris peered down at the prisoner's face, and his eyes grew wide. "Gods old and new!" he spat. "It is Oberyn Martell!"

Rickon suppressed the surge of triumph that welled in his breast. "You are sure?" he asked. "I mean no offense, but we must be certain."

"When he came to Blackmont, all men came out to see the Red Viper," Gerris said, almost babbling in his excitement. "I only saw him at a distance, but I saw him clearly, aye and the horse that he rode and which now lies on top of him." Gerris threw his head back and whooped. "Ah, ser knight, the gods smile upon us! His Grace King Stannis will give much in gold for the pleasure of killing him!"

Oberyn Martell spat at the hooves of Gerris' horse. "Laugh while you may, traitor," he growled sibilantly. "The deepest circle of the Hells is reserved for betrayers."

"And there is a furnace thrice-heated awaiting thee in that pit, Viper, for betraying your prince and bringing this war upon us," Gerris snarled back. "Although you could burn for eternity and it would be insufficient." The Dornishman looked up at Rickon. "Shall I cut out his tongue, ser, that we might be spared his curses?"

Rickon shook his head. "A gag will suffice," he said. "Bind him well, but not cruelly, and search him for poisons. I will not have any man cheat the King's justice, especially not this one."

Twelve days later, Rickon was standing in the great hall of Castle Vaith, recounting his tale to King Stannis and his court, which broke into light applause as he came to the end of his report. "Well done, Ser Rickon," said the King, who had led the applause. "My steward shall see your men rewarded with monies; I am told that Lord Tyrell has placed a substantial price on Oberyn's head after he placed a price on the head of Tyrell's son Willas. As for your own reward, attend upon me after this audience is dismissed and we shall speak of it." As Rickon bowed and withdrew to the company of his hunting party, who received him with fierce grins of triumph, Stannis turned to Oberyn. "Now, Prince Oberyn, what shall we do with you?"

Oberyn, who had been carried in on a chair due to his splinted leg with his wrists manacled behind the chairs back, spat on the floor. "I maintain the justice of my cause," he snarled, his face contorted with hatred, "and curse you for a tyrant blinded by Cersei Lannister's tits! Let me out of these chains and face me with a sword, weakling, and let us see whose cause the gods favor."

Stannis cocked an eyebrow. "Trial by combat is resorted to only when there is a question of guilt to be determined," he said evenly. "As a rebel taken in arms, your guilt is not in doubt. Nor will I have it said that I made a crippled man fight for his life." He rose from his seat. "Oberyn Martell," he said formally, "by my right of high justice in all of Westeros, I find you guilty of high treason against the Iron Throne, and sentence you to death by beheading." He turned to the Lord Commander of his Stormguard. "Ser Cortnay, take the condemned in custody. See to it that he remains in good health until he is brought out to die."

Oberyn cursed loud and long as a quartet of Stormguard knights stepped forward to pick up his chair and carry him out of the hall, being silenced only by a blow from a gauntleted fist that knocked him unconscious. As the rebel prince slumped in his chair and the court broke up in excited conversation, a page in royal livery tugged on Rickon's sleeve and led him out of the hall. Rickon followed, his head spinning with the possibilities that royal favor would make possible. Land and wealth certainly, but honor was just as good, and Rickon knew that the Stormguard had a dozen posts left to fill before it reached the required forty-nine. The Stormguard didn't have the reputation that the Kingsguard had, but Rickon knew a legend in the making when he saw one. It was a rare man who was able to become a part of such legends.

_Oberyn Martell was beheaded in the courtyard of Castle Vaith before a crowd of a thousand people; by all accounts he died as he lived, proud and defiant to his last breath. With Oberyn's execution, and the death of Lord Qorgyle in an ambush eight days later, the Red Viper Rebellion was decisively crushed. If the Red Viper's banner was raised in later years it was by bandit gangs seeking a fig leaf for their crimes._

_Of course, Stannis' work was not completed with simply defeating the rebels. Over the next two months Sunspear played host to almost a tenth of the nobility of the Seven Kingdoms as Stannis hammered out the new terms of the governance of Dorne with the Dornish magnates; perhaps the most exotic attendee was Balon Greyjoy, whose father Quellon had died in a raid on a rebel camp on the Dornish coast and had come to Sunspear to pledge his fealty to Stannis. A proposal that the Martells be deprived of the Princedom was shot down by Stannis himself, but they did not escape with a whole skin either. Doran Martell abdicated as Prince of Dorne; by the end of the sennight he was on a royal ship bound for Quiet Isle, there to live out his days as a contemplative monk of the Faith under observation by the garrison of Saltpans. Princess Mellario was confirmed as Princess-Regent for her daughter Arianne, but was required to accept a regency council composed of three royalist magnates in the persons of Lord Anders Yronwood, Lady Larra Blackmont, and Lord Franklyn Fowler, one neutral in the form of Lady Casella Dalt, who would become one of Mellario's stronger supporters on the council, and Ser Harold Jordayne._

_The inclusion of Ser Harold on the regency council would ordinarily have been inexplicable, for aside from being the first Dornishman to personally swear fealty to Stannis at the start of the rebellion and being of impeccable loyalty afterwards, he was relatively undistinguished. Indeed, the most noteworthy service he performed during the rebellion was ensuring House Jordayne's loyalty on the march to Sunspear, a feat which owed more to his glib tongue than any skill at arms. But Ser Harold was no longer a mere knight, but the instrument of a bold new experiment on Stannis' part. _

_The end of the rebellion did not mean an immediate return to peace across Dorne; a few die-hard rebels still lurked in the desert, while bandit gangs roamed from the Torrentine to the Greenblood, taking advantage of the breakdown of law and order to enjoy a heyday of raiding and pillage. In order to combat this, Stannis created a new order of knighthood. The Royal Order of the Sun, as it was called, served three purposes. Firstly, and most explicitly, it was charged with enforcing the King's Peace in Dorne, delivering grievances to the regency council on which Ser Harold sat by virtue of his rank as Master of the Order, and executing justice on their behalf. Secondly, it provided a means to reward knights and men-at-arms who had done good service in the Rebellion and would otherwise have become unemployed with the end of hostilities; a sterling example was Ser Rickon Riverbend, who was the named the Order's first Marshal. Thirdly, and most controversially, it was meant to be the visible arm of the royal government in Dorne; the office of Grand Master of the Order was made hereditary in the Baratheon royal line and all Order patrols were to fly the king's banner, alongside their own banner of a yellow sun-in-splendor on a white field. _

_The creation of the Order was certainly unprecedented, and was viewed with much wariness and no small amount of alarm among the conservative faction at court and the neutral-leaning Dornish, but they had vital support among the royalist Dornish. Lord Yronwood granted the Order five farms on his lands, and other loyalist lords provided similar grants, either of lands or of other assets; Lord Jordayne gifted each of the Order's four principal officers a sand steed from his personal stud. The reasons for this generosity varied widely, both generally and personally, but they appear to be a mix of genuine loyalty to King Stannis, and by extension to his representatives, and self-interest; Lady Blackmont, writing to Lord Dayne, described them as "not just our shield against future rebellions, but a club with which we may beat down our enemies if they stand against us." The justice of the latter claim is borne out by a review of Marshal Rickon's reports to the regency council, which largely consisted of claims that the remaining members of Houses Uller and Qorgyle where either granting safe haven to bandits or else failing in their duty to hunt them down; consequently both of these former rebel Houses suffered a series of penalties, including censures, fines, and even confiscation of lands, which were typically awarded to the Fowlers, the Yronwoods, and the Daynes, all of which had supported the Iron Throne._

_The consequences of the Order's creation reverberate to this day . . ._

\- _All King's Men: The Knightly Orders of Stannis the Grim _by Jon Daniels, published 1897 AC


	29. Chapter 29: Dog-Brothers

"You are sure I cannot convince you to stay?" Eddard asked, hoping against hope.

Jon Umber shook his head. "I'm still the Lord of Last Hearth, Ned," he said regretfully. "Now that Rhaegar's dead, I can no longer stay away. My people need me."

Maege Mormont also shook her head. "I need to take my daughter home," she said, glancing at the coffin being loaded aboard the ship. "But I'll be back, even if this overgrown loon won't." She jerked a thumb towards the Greatjon, who cocked an eyebrow. "And I'll bring every sword your brother can spare with me," she went on. "The debt of my daughter's death is paid, but there are still slavers in these lands. I have not yet had my fill of blood."

"Nor have I," Eddard said grimly. News of Rhaegar's death had reached Myr a sennight ago, and Eddard had received it with mixed feelings. On the one hand, the Rapist was dead, and Lyanna's blood avenged. On the other, Eddard had not delivered the fatal blow himself, and Ser Arthur Dayne's rescue of Rhaegar from the field of Tara and his subsequent escape from Myr meant that he was denied the pleasure of sending Rhaegar's skull to Winterfell to be laid at the feet of Lyanna's statue in the crypts. Moreover, Viserys still lived, and so long as one Targaryen drew breath, Eddard's vengeance was incomplete.

In the meantime, the kingdom was losing men. Some had decided that with Rhaegar dead, the Company's quest had been fulfilled and they were released from their oaths. Others, more prosaically, had made enough money from plunder that they wanted to go home and spend it, or at least make sure that it got to any family they had left behind in Westeros. Those who fell under the former category Eddard had released from service with the condition that they send as many recruits and as much aid as they could from their homelands. The latter Eddard had dispatched with wishes for safe travels after extracting oaths to return as swiftly as they might. The ships that had started arriving over the past two sennights, bold merchant seamen from Braavos or King's Landing or Gulltown taking a chance at being the first to make commercial contacts with the new kingdom, were making a fair amount of money out of it.

"We'll need more than swords, though," Eddard said finally after a long moment. "We need maesters, scribes, war horses, law-readers . . . " he spread his hands as if to indicate the enormity of the problem. "We have the makings of a kingdom, but we need a fully functioning kingdom, and we need it quickly. Tyrosh and Lys may be contenting themselves with probing the borders so far, but there will be open war within a year. And that leaves aside the Dothraki."

"I'll send what aid I can," Jon rumbled. "If nothing else I can tell every restless lad in the North that there's fame and fortune to be had in these lands if he serves you well. If no one else, poor old Arnolf's sons will come. Better than sitting around Karhold the rest of their lives living on Rickard's goodwill and they have their father to avenge." He grinned mirthlessly. "And if Brandon complains, I can tell him that I'm doing him a favor. First by making sure his brother has sufficient force to defend himself, second by getting all those hot-headed young men somewhere they can make themselves useful."

Eddard favored Jon with an irritated look. "Jon," he said evenly, "don't give Brandon more grief than you must. You know I can't take Winterfell even if I wanted it, now, and Benjen is promised to the Night's Watch. I would take it amiss if Brandon's children were disinherited and you had anything to do with it."

"Don't fash yourself, Ned," Jon said, waving a hand larger than most dinner plates. "I'll be the soul of loyalty to Brandon and his bairns while I'm in the North and under his rule." The towering Northman looked Eddard full in the face. "But hearkee, Ned," he said seriously. "If you need my sword, all you have to do is call and I'll come. And if Brandon doesn't give me leave," his great paw flicked sharply, as if to shoo away an insect, "then fuck him."

Eddard considered a range of responses, and in the end opted for simply sticking his hand out. "Can't say fairer than that," he said resignedly, exchanging grips with Jon and Maege in turn. "Gods watch over you both."

XXX

The hedge knight knew he was not quite the picture of chivalry. His horse was no great destrier of the Highgarden stables or the great stud farm outside Lannisport, but a graying and scarred rounsey of no particular breeding that he called Jack; he had stopped giving his horses fancy names years ago. His armor, which consisted primarily of a breastplate, vambraces, and a kettle helm, was old and seamed with the bright lines that showed where old dents had been hammered out and was painted a dull black, as was his shield; the paint helped keep the metal from rusting and the wood from rotting. His arming sword, broad-bladed and with a less acute point than newer blades, was sharp and clean, but undeniably old; it had been his uncle's sword before the old man shat himself to death after drinking from a stream in the Stormlands, and was a generation out of date. He himself was no maiden's fantasy either; years on the road, interspersed with fighting for as much pay as he could cadge from whatever lord he served at the time, had battered a once-handsome face into homeliness and weathered him like an old boulder.

All that said, he was still in a cheery mood. It was a late summer day with fine weather, he had money in his purse and food in his saddlebags courtesy of the Dornish rebellion, and he knew where a good camping place was to be found on this road on the eastern bank of the Mander. He had been on the roads for thirty years, first as his uncle's page and squire and then as a knight, and he knew every trick of how to survive the solitary and nomadic existence of the hedge knight. And even if he hadn't, this particular camping place was widely known, for if hedge knights weren't there then drovers or local shepherds usually were, or young nobles who had gone hunting and decided to stay out overnight.

So he wasn't terribly surprised to see the glow of a fire through the trees that surrounded the site. "Hello the fire!" he called as he rode up; there were _rules_ to life on the road and one of them was that when you approached a camp you always announced yourself. If you didn't, then whoever was in that camp had the right to assume that you weren't friendly and act accordingly. That sort of thing could get bloody in a tearing hurry, especially when it involved men who lived by their wits and their skill at arms.

"Hello yourself!" came the reply; a Riverlander by the accent, if the hedge knight was any judge. He himself was a Crownlander from around Sow's Horn, although he hadn't visited his family's home in years. "Come and join us, friend, if friend you be."

The hedge knight walked his horse up to the edge of the camping site and dismounted with a small groan of relief; he would never see forty again and long days in the saddle left him stiffer than they used to. Stripping off his heavy steerhide gloves he held out his hand to the man who had risen to greet him. "Ser Vernan Irons," he introduced himself. "I have food to share, if you're agreeable."

"More than," said the other man, a thickset fellow with a short goatee and a bushy moustache. "Ser Lanard Blackpool, at your service. My friend here is Ser Brynnan the Axe, as you might tell by his weapon." The man sitting on the ground flicked a finger off his brow in acknowledgement; he was a powerfully built man with hands like spades; the horseman's axe resting conveniently close to his hand had a shaft as long as a man's arm with a deceptively small head.

Introductions being taken care of and the sun going down, the hedge knights set to work. By the time the bottom edge of the sun had touched the horizon, Vernan's horse had been unsaddled, a small pot of nail soup was bubbling over the fire, and Brynnan had produced a bottle of rough wine that made its way around.

"Whereabouts you coming from?" asked Brynnan as he spooned a helping of soup into his bowl.

"Dorne, along the Torrentine," Vernan replied. "What with Oberyn getting the axe, Lord Tarly didn't need me anymore, so he released me from his service."

"You were in Dorne?" asked Lanard, perking up. "I was there myself, around Skyreach mostly." He shook his head. "In about a hundred years, I'll want to do _that_ again. Hotter than a frying pan and never knowing if this was the day some rebel bastard was going to dry-gulch you while you were taking a piss. Were you in Dorne, Brynnan?"

The dour Westerlander shook his head. "I was sworn to Lord Foote at the time," he said, "and the West didn't march. Something about not poking a thumb in the Dornishmen's eye unnecessarily." He snorted. "Load of rot, you ask me. Do I look like a Clegane?"

Lanard cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. "Depend on the light," he said, an affectedly serious tone in his voice, "but if you turn your head just to the right and furrow your brow . . ." Brynnan threw a small pebble at him lightly while Vernan laughed. "Thank the gods it's over, though," Lanard went on. "Back in country the gods truly love with decent weather instead of that burning hellhole."

"Except for the part where we're not getting paid anymore," Vernan replied, blowing on a spoonful of soup. "War or peace, we still have to eat, and so do our horses." Swallowing the spoonful of soup he glanced at Brynnan. "Any of the western lords retaining men?"

"If they were, I wouldn't be here," Brynnan replied. "Old Tywin has the Westerlands sewn up tighter than a moneylender's purse, and his patrols don't look kindly on hedge knights or freeriders roaming around the place without being in service. So when I lost my place to a man who, to be fair, was better with a sword than I am with an axe, I thought I'd go east and see if there was any truth to the news out of Essos."

That provoked a moment of silence. For months now, news of what had passed in Essos had spread through the Seven Kingdoms like wildfire. A great battle had been fought that had left ten thousand dead upon the field. Myr had been besieged, and then sacked with great slaughter. Robert Baratheon, once called Robert the Brief, was now a king again, this time of Myr. Rhaegar Targaryen was dead, either in the battle or later after his flight to Volantis. Robert summoned all brave men who loved freedom and feared neither toil nor battle to his new kingdom, where leal service would be richly rewarded.

"I heard as there were lordships for the taking in Myr now," Lanard offered. "Fight well and serve loyally and Baratheon'll give you land and make you a lord, and never mind what you were before."

Brynnan looked up from the fire sharply. "Is that true?" he asked, his voice edged. "Because if it's not true, then that's a very poor joke, and you shouldn't make it."

Lanard held up his hands. "I just heard it," he said defensively. "I don't know whether the news is true or not, I just hear it."

Brynnan gestured acceptance and went back to staring at the fire. The words hung in the air. _Land. Lordship._ It was long and long since a new lordly house had been raised up. Even the best and luckiest of hedge knights could hope only to become a landed knight, with four or five farms under their hand and maybe a mill if they were lucky. To be sure hedge knights had joined the Kingsguard in days past, and word was that there were a few on the Stormguard, but even a man of the royal bodyguard still depended on his lord's favor for his daily bread; incur your lord's displeasure and you risked being dismissed without pay or reference, and maybe a beating if you were very unlucky. To own land in your own right was to _be _a lord; a small lord perhaps but a lord nonetheless. To own land was to never worry about starving again, to never fear being caught on the road without shelter in winter, to not have to contend with bad weather or bandits with only your own wits and your own sword-craft. What was more, to own land was to be able to buy proper armor or a good war-horse or a new sword, to be able to marry and father sons to carry on your name, to start a line that might last a thousand years if your heirs played their cards right.

But it was a rare lord who rewarded his sworn swords with land; for the most part, there was no unclaimed land to give in reward. And even if there was land, there was usually a shortage of people to farm it. Every lord in Westeros tried to lure people to their lands, but the simple fact was that farm work was brutally hard, and while the smallfolk tended to have large families, it wasn't uncommon for four or five of every ten children to die before their fifth nameday. Even prosperous, safe, and well-governed lands tended to gain in population only slowly.

So if Robert Baratheon was rewarding good service with land . . .

"How much does it cost to buy a passage from King's Landing to Myr?" Vernan asked finally.

Lanard shrugged. "I wouldn't know, as I've never been on a ship," he said. "Could be anywhere from fifty stags to fifty dragons." He grimaced. "Probably more, to carry your horse."

Brynnan shrugged. "Either way, it's out of my reach," he said sourly. "Lord Foote shoveled me out the gate without bothering to pay me for the last month I served him, the tight-fisted old bastard. Said that as payday hadn't come around yet, I wasn't entitled to pay." He shrugged. "Guess I'll have to head down to Dorne and see if I can get a place in this Order of the Sun people say the King's set up."

Vernan raised a finger. "I've an idea," he said. "What say we pool our money together, ride to King's Landing, and try to get passage to Myr all together? We might be able to knock a few stags off the price by volunteering to help fight off any pirates the ship runs into."

Lanard and Brynnan looked at each other. "That could work," Lanard said hesitantly. "I've got a fair amount left from my Dornish service still, enough that I should be able to pay for a passage with some left over." He grimaced. "If it comes to that, we can probably make up any shortfall by selling our horses. Essos has horses, doesn't it?"

"Must do," said Brynnan. "What with bloody Dothraki crawling all over the place." He grimaced again; Vernan thought it might be a favorite expression of his. "If you'll help me pay my passage," he said slowly, sounding like he was in pain, "I'll pay you back as soon as I can, once we're in Myr and in Baratheon's service."

Lanard waved a hand. "What's a favor between comrades?" he said carelessly. "Besides, three stout lads like us?" He gave a cawing laugh. "We'll have more gold off the magisters than we'll know what to do with, ere long."

"I'll drink to that," said Vernan pouring a measure of the rough wine into his small horn cup and passing the bottle to Brynnan, who did the same and passed it to Lanard. Vernan lifted his cup. "Hell or plunder, dog-brothers."

The three hedge knights tapped their cups together to seal their pact.

**Author's Note: This chapter and the next few chapters will be taking place over the course of the next several months in-story as the fallout from the Fall of Myr and the Red Viper Rebellion takes effect. **


	30. Chapter 30: Howl and Scream

War without fire, Lyn Corbray's old master-at-arms had told him, was like sausage without mustard. If that was the case, he reflected as he sipped at his canteen and surveyed the swath of border country that his men had swept through, this particular dish was well-seasoned indeed.

As Warden of the Southern Marches, Lyn was charged with keeping the peace throughout the new kingdom's southern border country, repelling any incursions, and, in the event of a major invasion, holding the enemy at bay as long as he could until reinforcements arrived from the rest of the realm. On the face of it, this would have been a difficult task even with a strong and well-found realm; with a realm that was still being born, it was almost impossible.

Assuming of course, that you took a very limited view of the task and the power given you to carry it out.

The day after Robert and his progress had moved on, Lyn had placed Ser Eustace Hunter in command of Sirmium with a tenth of his force and taken the rest on a massive raid into the Tyroshi lands. The main column of infantry, a mixture of Westerosi spearmen and men of the Iron Legion, marched from one walled town to the other, storming them by surprise escalade under cover of night and bloodily sacking them, while parties of horsemen ranged out from the column to despoil and torch every village, estate, and farm they could reach. The Tyroshi border guards had suspected an incursion, and indeed had been reinforced by a company of Tyroshi regulars a sennight before the assault, but the speed and violence of the offensive had caught them off guard. The Prefect of the East, the Tyroshi governor, managed to rally enough of his forces to offer battle at the town of Tignes, but the companies of the Iron Legion who made up most of Lyn's infantry had learned quickly and well from the Westerosi veterans and the Tyroshi infantry were scattered.

The goal was to turn the Tyroshi side of the border from a prosperous and well-ordered region that could serve as the storehouse of an invading army to a smoking ruin incapable of supporting any sizable force. And to do that Lyn was sweeping the frontier with sword and torch as it had not been swept in more than a century. The sellsword companies of the east could be brutal, to be sure, but their brutality had rules as to what could be demanded, what punishment could be levied if what was demanded was not produced and there was no excuse, and what compensation was due to those who produced promptly and in full; among other things the farm and draft horses of the Disputed Lands had a respectable amount of war-horse blood in their family tree. These rules were what allowed the free companies to serve one city one year and another the next year with a minimum of problems arising.

The Kingdom of Myr had no use for such rules. The old canons of conflict in Essos, where war was reduced to a business venture with sharply defined limits and strict rules, had been thrown out of the window the minute the first slave was freed. Lyn cared little for the prattling of Septon Jonothor about the holy cause of freedom and the divinely ordained duty of destroying the slavers, but he recognized the necessity of absolute victory. Every slave freed was another potential recruit to the Iron Legion, every estate burned was one that wouldn't feed a Tyroshi army in the next campaign season, every town sacked was a town that couldn't pay the taxes that would pay for such an army.

Then and there, Lyn resolved to serve the Lyseni borderlands as he had served the Tyroshi, and hang the fact that they were technically at peace. No one he had ever talked to expected that peace to last out the year, and he knew better than most that the Kingdom of Myr was in no position to fight off an invasion. The best way to prevent such an invasion to turn the enemy border country into a wasteland incapable of supporting the passage of an army, and the best way to do that was to carry out such raids as this one on a regular basis.

Lyn recorked his canteen and tossed it back to his squire. They had another five miles to go today, and the best weapon he had in this situation was speed. More than once his hard-marching veterans had surprised a Tyroshi border guard company that hadn't expected them for another day or two and put them to flight. But the pace had to be maintained.

Lyn bared his teeth in anticipation. He was already making the Tyroshi howl; by the time he was done with the Lyseni, they would _scream_.

XXX

Ser Gerold Potts looked down from the window of his solar at the lone man riding out from his holdfast into the bright dawn and grunted to himself. He had half-expected this, but he hadn't thought that his second son had it in him to strike out into the unknown. In hindsight, he should probably have known better; he himself had never looked when he could leap.

"This is your fault," his wife said reproachfully. Brenda Potts had been one of the beauties of Saltpans once, before age and children had rounded her frame and softened her face, although at times she was still the flashing-eyed spitfire who had caught Gerold's attention as he rode through the town on business from his liege-lord. This was one of those times. "If you had told him that he was in your will yesterday, he wouldn't have left."

Gerold turned to where his wife sat on their bed. "Would you have had me lie to him?" he asked sardonically. "You know that the holdfast and the rents and produce from the farms have to go to Jon, along with the lion's share of my wealth, and most of the rest went for Jenna's dowry. All I can leave to Joren I've already given him. It would do him no favors to lead him on."

"But you could have found him a place closer to home," Brenda spat; she had stopped sobbing but her face was still splotchy and her eyes were red. Judging by the look she was giving him, grief was turning to anger. "You could have found him a place with Ser Quincy or Lord Mooton or _someone_ . . . "

"I tried," Gerold said heavily, sitting on the bed next to his wife of twenty years. "Gods witness I tried. But no one's taking on new sworn swords unless they're a relation of some sort; what with the wars done and dusted, there's no need for them. And even if he could find a place," he went on, "what proper future would that be for him? Spending his years as some petty lord's tax collector and bone-breaker and nothing but a calloused arse and a pallet in his brother's hall when he can no longer serve?" He shook his head. "I got this place for the service I gave in the War of the Ninepenny Kings," he said. "Joren's as good as I ever was, if not better; he has it in him to become a _lord_, not just a landed knight with a hand of farms for his support. If Robert Baratheon's giving out lordships in Myr for good service, then it would be a crime _not_ to send Joren off to him."

Brenda turned a look of dawning comprehension on him. "You _wanted_ him to do this?" she asked, her voice dangerously soft.

Gerold held up his hands. "I wanted him to have a better future than I could give him," he replied defensively. "And the best way to do that was to send him east. But you know Joren, ornery as an old mule since he turned eighteen. The only way I could think of to make him go east was to forbid him. So I did, and gave old Evrard down in the stables orders to lend him a hand if he asked." He lowered his hands. "It was the only way, love," he said softly. "I can't give him the future he deserves; he has to go and take it. Gods know I did as much and I didn't do too badly, did I?" he gestured broadly to indicate both his wife and the small holdfast he ruled.

Brenda stood up. "I accept your explanation," she said icily. "But hear me, Gerold Potts; I do not forgive you for driving my son away. Do not think to enter my bed until I do." She turned and swept out of the room; Gerold waited until she had closed the door to sigh in relief. All in all, he reflected, that had gone as well as he had any right to expect.


	31. Chapter 31: Of Laws and Gods

Eddard peered at his opponent through the vision slits in his visor; he was a tricky one, not terribly fast but tough as an old stump and devious. Eddard's only consolation was that his opponent was blowing as hard as he was. Fighting in armor was brutally hard work, especially when you pushed yourself to the limit as he was doing; his sword, normally as light and responsive as a live thing, seemed to have quadrupled in weight and his armor weighed on him like the sins of Aerys the Mad.

He set aside his fatigue with an effort of will as his opponent sidled forward, shifted his weight forward, put all his strength into a forehand blow from the guard of the lady as he pushed off his back foot . . . and found himself on the ground with his ears ringing.

"Hold," came the voice of the master-at-arms. "Kill to Ser Brynden. Set to Ser Brynden, three-one-one."

Eddard rolled onto his hands and knees and stood, stripping off his basinet and saluting Ser Brynden with his sword. "How'd you do that?" he asked ruefully. "I would have sworn I had you right then."

"If you'd let me come in another three or four inches, you would have," Brynden replied as he pulled off his great helm. "As it was I saw you shift your weight forward and I had enough time to sidestep and counter-cut to the back of your head."

"And put you on the ground with a thoroughly rung bell," said a voice from the side of the fencing ground as Grand Maester Antony strode forward, clucking. "Honestly, Lord Stark, as important as you are, I must recommend that you take a bit more care in your sparring." He strode behind Eddard and poked at the back of Eddard's head. "Tilt your head forward please. Any dizziness, impaired vision, nausea?"

"No, Grand Maester," Eddard said long-sufferingly; Antony was a worthy man but a worrywart, and somewhat inclined to self-importance. "And it's a lord's duty to fight, as we established the other day," he went on as Antony probed at the base of his skull with light fingers. "It's not exactly a safe occupation, fighting."

"I suppose not," Antony sighed as he finished his inspection. "Call for me if any of the symptoms I just named eventuate, which they probably won't but might, so. And speaking of establishing things," he said briskly, "we have run into a difficulty in that regard that requires your intervention, if you can be spared from bashing at the Master of Soldiers with a steel bar."

Eddard sighed as he turned to the sidelines to find Ser Mychel Egen, Franlan Shipwright, and Maesters Laurens and Yorick, who with Grand Maester Antony were the council charged with developing the laws of the new kingdom. They were only proposals until Robert returned from his progress, but the work still needed to be done; Robert had made clear that he wanted a coherent set of proposals to approve or modify when he returned. "Let's see," he said, cudgeling his memory as he handed his sword off to his page and began to strip off his armor. "We've covered the rights, duties, and obligations of the nobility, the commons, and the crown, we've covered freedom of worship, we've covered the absolute illegality of slavery, what are we covering this time?"

"The question of the towns," said Maester Yorick, a Crownlander with a black goatee that he kept fussily trimmed. "Specifically whether or not they should be included in the land grants of the nobility, elect their own leadership, or be placed directly under royal rule."

Eddard grimaced. "Didn't we decide to put off this discussion until we got more reports on what arrangements Robert was making in the towns?" he asked. "If nothing else, whoever he puts in charge may have more permanent views of their situation."

"We've reviewed the reports from the southern towns and those towns in the eastern territories that His Grace has visited so far," Antony said, folding his hands in his sleeves, "and we believe that we have sufficient information to base a proposal on."

"The freedmen must be allowed to elect their own leadership," Franlan snapped; the feisty dockyard foreman made a point of fighting for every inch of the rights of the commons, which was only fair as that was what he had been appointed to the council to do. His bulky, barrel-chested frame was hunched slightly forward like a boxer's, his massive arms were folded belligerently, and his gray-white beard bristled out from his florid face. "If we are free, then we must be free to elect our rulers."

"Even if those rulers turn out to be incompetent?" Mychel asked. "How likely is a craftsman or a merchant to know how to govern?"

"We'll never know if we don't find out," said Maester Laurens. "That said, the first priority must be that the towns be properly governed, and especially that they be governed in such a way that they contribute as much as possible to the defense of the realm. The majority of those taxes that are paid in cash will derive from the towns, after all, and they will be our largest reserve of ready manpower."

"The scheme we adopted for the recruitment of soldiers can be applied to the towns as well as the country," Franlan said, his brows knitting. Under that scheme, each lordship was required to provide a certain number of equipped soldiers, the number, type, and equipment of which was stipulated in that lordship's contract with the royal government, to serve in the Royal Army at the king's pleasure. "We'll have to take the same precautions there as we did in the lordships, though, especially for those trades that rely on skilled labor; you don't make a journeyman carpenter overnight, or a glassblower."

"How about this," Eddard said as he began to unbuckle the straps that held his breastplate together. "The power of governance rests with a royally appointed official, like the Wardens, but the freedmen of the town can elect a council of burghers to advise the official." Eddard's page stepped forward and took over unbuckling Eddard's cuirass. "Thank you, Saul," Eddard said off-handedly; Saul, who had been a child-apprentice in the shipyards before he attached himself to Eddard's household, blushed fiercely. It had not been the Myrish way to thank their slaves for initiative shown or work well done. "This official, let's call him a Lord Lieutenant, serves as the mayor of the town, the commander of the garrison, and the chief judge in the town's court, but all decisions of governance that affect the town as a whole must be made in consultation with the council of burghers."

"What if this Lord Lieutenant chooses to make decisions that the council does not agree with?" Franlan asked, his brows still knitted. "If he is the lord and commands the garrison, then he will be able to ignore the council's advice."

Mychel shrugged. "Then the council can appeal to the king," he said. "The royal inspectors we're going to be sending around can visit the towns as easily as the lordships, and they can take down evidence of a Lord Lieutenant's wrongdoing as easily as a lord's." The royal inspectors, an idea of Franlan's, were slated to be a corps of royal officials who would travel through the realm inspecting the state of the fortifications and the military forces, with a side brief of hearing any complaints against a lord made by his smallfolk and collecting any supporting evidence, all of which would be reported to the Master of Laws and the King. It was a massive intrusion of royal power against the traditional prerogatives of the nobility, but Eddard believed that they could justify it on the grounds of necessity; the proper maintenance and training of the realm's military might was essential to its survival. If the Kingdom of Myr showed weakness, its enemies would drag it down and eat it alive.

As the last of Eddard's armor came off and Saul began to gather it up to take it away and polish it, Eddard settled his knight's belt of linked steel plates, a gift from his foster-father, around his hips. "Sounds fair to me," he said, closing the belt by slipping a pin into a trio of steel rings set behind one of the plates. "Any objections?" As heads shook all around, Franlan's reluctantly, Eddard shrugged. "All right then, write it up and we'll put it in the list. Anything else?"

"Now that you mention it," Yorick said slowly, making Eddard stifle a groan. It bode fair to be a very long day.

XXX

Ser Leofric Corbray, formerly the Lord of Heart's Home and now a simple knight again, stifled a groan of relief as the High Septon wound down the ceremony. He and more than a score of other knights, volunteers to serve in the gods' cause in Essos, had petitioned the High Septon to bless them before their departure and the mouthpiece of the gods on earth hadn't been able to pass up the opportunity for ceremony. The spectacle of almost thirty knights, kneeling in full armor and holding their swords across their hands while the High Septon invoked the favor of the gods upon them, recalled the days of the Faith Militant, and Leofric had started wondering if doing this sort of thing in public was entirely wise. Jon Arryn was being enough of a stick in the mud already, refusing to let any who held titles or lands of King Stannis go east-over-sea to fight in the holy cause without renouncing their titles and lands, without having fears of a resurrected Faith Militant put in his head.

But the majority of his relief was for himself. He was more than fifty years old and kneeling for a prolonged period of time in full armor was painful even for a young man; Leofric's knees felt like someone had put them in a vise where the edges of his greaves and poleyns had dug into his flesh through his arming trousers. His back ached from the weight of his cuirass and pauldrons, and the effort of holding the almost three pounds of Valyrian steel that Lady Forlorn represented across his extended hands was taking a toll on his arms, which were further encumbered by the weight of gauntlets, vambraces, couters, and rerebraces. Only stubborn pride had kept his arms from trembling. He might be old enough to have sired any of the other knights with him, but he was still the scion of one of the oldest and most martial houses of the Vale, the cradle of Westerosi chivalry; he would not betray weakness.

At least the day wasn't too hot. Wearing full plate on a hot day was roughly akin to wearing an oven.

Finally the High Septon ended the ceremony, the final amen was said, and the knights were allowed to stand and sheathe their swords. As Leofric turned away, he was approached by a monk and, after a whispered conversation, ushered into the vestry of the Great Sept for a private word with the High Septon, who received him very informally with only a single septon in attendance who served them both an exceptional wine before standing at the High Septon's left hand.

"We wish to begin, Ser Leofric," the High Septon began, "by commending you for your piety. The Book of the Smith commands us to serve the gods and do good works without thought of cost, but we find that it is regarded as less a commandment and more a mild suggestion. For you to make such sacrifices as you have already made in the service of the gods does you great honor."

Leofric bowed. "I but serve the gods as best I may, Your Holiness," he replied. "And in my circumstances, the sacrifice is not as onerous as it might be to others." Lyonel had been ready to take up the reins of lordship for some time now, and Lyn held a post of high honor in the service of King Robert by all accounts. Lucas had to remain in Heart's Home to serve as Lyonel's heir until he bore a son, thanks to the royal decree, almost certainly devised by Jon Arryn, that no man who held a title or office under King Robert could inherit in the lands of King Stannis, but Leofric had little concern in that regard. Whatever befell, his House's future was well provided-for.

As far as Leofric's own concerns went, the simple fact was that he was growing old. His knees, back, and wrists ached even when he didn't wear armor and it was long years since his hair had been any color other than grey. Three-score and ten were the appointed years of a man, or so said the Book of the Father, and Leofric had less than twenty of those years left. If he could spend those years in a knightly venture, serving a cause the gods clearly favored, and die sword in hand in a ring of his slain as a knight should, he would die content.

"If that is so, then perhaps we might induce you to perform a small service for us?" the High Septon asked lightly, making Leofric blink. If the High Septon wanted something that the Faith could not provide for him, then properly speaking he should make the request of King Stannis; for him to approach Leofric, who was preparing to renounce his allegiance to Stannis, was more than a little irregular.

But Leofric was a dutiful son of the Faith, so he gestured acceptance. "Name this service and I shall see it done, Your Holiness," he said confidently.

"When the Sunset Company first sailed," the High Septon said, leaning back in his chair, "we took the liberty of dispatching seven septons with it to attend to the spiritual needs of the men. Among them was a Septon Jonothor," the High Septon sighed. "He was an exceptional student at seminary, but very difficult; he burned with zeal for the Faith, and tended to allow that zeal to overcome his reason. He was deemed too, shall we say, _prickly_ to assign to a noble household, so he was given a parish in Flea Bottom in the hopes that it would teach him humility. Unfortunately his zeal seemed to burn all the more brightly and be all the more misdirected, especially in upbraiding his fellow clergy." The High Septon smiled slightly. "Among other things he all but accused one of his fellow septons of hubris and commanded him to repent, lest tragedy befall him. In fairness the septon in question _was_ in error, but Jonothor overstepped the bounds of his office in issuing him a command he did not have the authority to give."

Leofric nodded; he was beginning to see why this Jonothor had been sent with the Sunset Company. "It was decided," the High Septon continued, "that Jonothor should be sent to Essos with the company, in order that he might gain some perspective. We have since heard much of him that redounds to the credit of the Faith; apparently when the freedmen were repulsed from the walls of Myr it was Jonothor who rallied them with the power of scripture. However," the High Septon's face tightened, as if he found what he had to say next distasteful, "we have also heard much that gives us cause to fear that Jonothor has fallen into error, and strayed from the teachings of the Faith." He gestured to the septon standing next to his chair. "Consequently, we shall be dispatching Septon Jaspar and a small party of other septons to investigate Jonothor's activities and compile any evidence of error or wrongdoing. We would esteem it as a favor, Ser Leofric, if you were to place yourself and your knights at Septon Jaspar's disposal if he should have need of your assistance."

Leofric frowned. These were rapidly becoming deep waters. "With all respect, Your Holiness," he asked tentatively, "is that entirely legal? Or, for that matter, wise? If this Septon Jonothor has fallen into error, then surely all that will be needed will be for Your Holiness to command King Robert to arrest him and transport him here to King's Landing to face a trial. Pardon my bluntness, but to bypass King Robert in this fashion would give the impression that you do not trust him to obey such a command, which would be no small insult to a good son of the Faith."

"We are reliably informed that Septon Jonothor is held in the highest esteem by King Robert," the High Septon answered. "Indeed, it was Jonothor who officiated at his coronation and placed the crown on his head. And King Robert's loyalty to those he considers his friends is well-known. To force him to choose between one he considers a friend and our good regard for him and his kingdom seems to us to be most impolite." The High Septon spread his hands. "By employing you as our hand in this matter, we would be granting Robert the option of simply turning aside, instead of insisting that he clap Jonothor in irons with his own hands. But this is somewhat premature," the High Septon said, a placating tone entering his voice. "It is possible that our information is mistaken and the need to arrest Jonothor will not arise. Tales grow in the telling, after all."

Leofric nodded. "As I am sure Your Holiness would be made even more aware of than you are now, if you passed the time with any fishermen," he said politely, drawing a laugh from the High Septon as he thought furiously. More than being an insult to Robert on the High Septon's behalf, carrying out this mission would be tantamount to committing treason against his new king and declaring the Faith Militant reborn. That was a step that even the boldest would hesitate to take, and while Leofric knew himself to be brave, he was not suicidal.

And even if Leofric and his knights were able to extradite this rogue septon to King's Landing by force or by guile, would Stannis accept the Faith's complaint and order his Master of Laws to bring charges? By all reports there wasn't much love lost between the two brothers, but countenancing the kidnapping of a favored cleric and prosecuting him for heresy was at the very least a deadly insult, if not an act of war. Far less trouble, and far more convenient, to return the cleric with a letter of apology and the heads of the kidnappers in a box.

On the other hand, Leofric was a man of his word, and he had already said that he would carry out whatever service the High Septon might ask of him. _Let this be a lesson to you, old son, about remembering to look before you leap,_ he chided himself as he bowed. "I accept this mission, Your Holiness," he said formally.

Leofric spent much of his remaining time in King's Landing, and of the voyage to Myr, praying that this Septon Jonothor fellow had done nothing to warrant the ire of the High Septon.


	32. Chapter 32: Bonds of Honor and Blood

Robert read over the missive that had arrived that afternoon by fast ship from King's Landing and dispatch rider from Myr city to find them three days ride from Ceralia and smiled. "I'll be damned," he said happily. "I'm an uncle."

Jaime glanced over. "Cersei's had a child?" he asked.

"Lyonel Baratheon, a fine fat bouncing baby boy with Stannis' hair and eyes," Robert replied, chuckling. "I'll have to send the sourpuss a letter with my congratulations when we get back to Myr. About time he had a child, maybe it'll liven him up a bit." He glanced at Jaime. "Your sister's doing well, according to this," he said. "No fever, no hemorrhage. She should be back to queening it around the Red Keep in no time."

Jaime blew his cheeks out in relief as he signed himself with the seven-pointed star. Childbirth was dangerous even for a woman with the finest maesters in Westeros at hand, but if any woman would come through it with flying colors, Cersei would. If nothing else she would just decree it; _Child, be born, _and the child would come quietly if it knew what was good for it.

"Once your exile's over we'll have to send you back on the next ship," Robert said. "The boy will have to know his uncle of course. And I don't care what Stannis says, his boy will be lucky to have your sword at his service."

"So eager to get rid of me, Your Grace?" Jaime asked teasingly. "I promise you're safe from me."

Robert threw his head back and laughed. "As for that, if you ever get the notion to try and add another king to your tally then I am, as they say, at your service," he said, his eyes twinkling with mirth and a touch of challenge. "But you'll be wanting to go back to Westeros anyway; if nothing else your father will be wanting his heir back. And if I kept you from inheriting Casterly Rock, I'd deserve whatever you tried to give me. Who wouldn't want to be the richest lord in Westeros?"

_One who didn't want to live with what his father did, _Jaime thought but didn't say. Aerys he had no tears for, but the others . . . Queen Rhaella had done nothing to deserve her fate, any more than Princess Elia had. He had played with little Rhaenys when duty would allow it, and Aegon had been a babe at the breast. He had only discussed it with his father once, and the memory still rankled; he could still hear his father lecturing him on honor, duty, and necessity in that cold, stony voice of his. That conversation had ended with Jaime storming out of the room and refusing to speak to his father again until the day before the company sailed. Aloud he said, "Someone who wanted to do more than sit in his hall and count coppers," gesturing at the land around them. "In Casterly Rock I'd be talking to merchants and listening to my lords complain about how things were so much better in my father's day. Here I can do what the gods made me to do."

Robert cocked an eyebrow. "Is that you talking or Septon Jonothor?" he asked. "I hadn't figured you for being more than usually devout, but I've seen you at his services since Myr. Nothing wrong with that of course," he added hastily, "nothing at all; Jonothor's a good man for a septon. But if Jonothor's trying to suborn my knights, I need to know."

Jaime waved a hand. "It's nothing like that at all," he replied. "I'll admit that Jonothor's certainty is refreshing, but it's not the only reason I want to remain here." He poked a thumb over his shoulder towards the village they had stopped for luncheon in. "The people back there hadn't heard the name of Lannister before I came through; in Westeros everyone and their pig knows of House Lannister, and most of them know of my father, if only by reputation." _Especially after King's Landing_ hung in the air unsaid as Jaime shrugged. "Live your whole life in someone's shadow, you'll do a lot to get a place in the sun, Your Grace."

Robert narrowed his eyes speculatively as Jaime subsided. He wasn't used to talking about this sort of thing and a feeling of mild embarrassment settled on him. "I'll try to keep that in mind," Robert said slowly. "Although it may be a bit late in my case." Robert shrugged. "I'll send you back to King's Landing after your exile's over anyway, if only for a time," he said. "I'll need someone to tell my nephew about me who can be relied on to tell him the truth."

Jaime blinked, then ducked his head as the import of what Robert just said hit him. "Your Grace does me too much honor," he said.

Robert waved a hand. "You saved Ned's life at Tara," he said airily. "I'll be the judge of how much honor you are owed. Now about these cavalry companies we were talking about, to support the legions . . . "

XXX

The longship nosing up the quay got Victarion's eye and made him break off his conversation with Franlan about the design of a new type of galley. He knew every longship in the Royal Fleet of Myr by sight, and this one wasn't one of them. It was familiar to him, however; he had seen it among his father's fleet before he sailed from Pyke to join the Sunset Company. Given that it was flying the banner of House Greyjoy from the masthead, and that the sails were also emblazoned with the golden kraken, it had to be here on official business.

His suspicions confirmed by the sight of the man who jumped from the deck to the quay, Victarion excused himself and strode over to embrace the newcomer. "Aeron, by the gods!" he roared happily. "Finally visiting your brother, eh? What news from the Isles?"

Aeron returned the embrace, pounding on Victarion's back. "Good to see you too brother," he exclaimed before whispering in Victarion's ear, "and I do have news from the Isles; news that I'm only supposed to tell to you."

Victarion blinked, sneaking about had never been Aeron's style, and broke the embrace. "Come," he said loudly, "join me in my cabin for a glass! Best wine this side of the Arbor, we've got, and all the better for having paid the iron price for it!"

A few minutes later, with Franlan taking charge of seeing to Aeron's crew and cargo, the two brothers were secluded in Victarion's cabin aboard the _Iron Storm_ and sharing a flagon of Myrish wine. After exchanging the news of the sea, the gossip of weather and ships and currents that was the common language of seafarers the world over, Aeron put down his goblet and leaned forward. "The first of my news is ill, brother," he said seriously. "Our father is dead."

Victarion nodded. "I've heard," he said soberly, recalling the grief that had overtaken him. "A trader brought the news three sennights ago of his death in battle on the coast of Dorne." He raised his goblet. "What is dead may never die," he said, in the old language of the Isles that had survived only for the ceremonies of the Drowned God's faith and the most ancient of poetry and song.

"But rises again, harder and stronger," Aeron replied in the same language before switching back to Common Tongue. "Balon has taken the Seastone Chair and been acclaimed as Lord of the Isles. He wants you and the other Ironborn with you to return to the Isles as swiftly as you may."

Victarion sat back, his jaw dropping as the full weight of what Aeron had said hit him. "But that is impossible," he said finally. "We are the backbone of the Royal Fleet. If we left, then the kingdom would be naked on the seas."

Aeron shrugged. "So get these greenlanders to build and man their own ships and get the Master of Ships here to release you from service," he said in a voice that indicated how little he cared one way or the other. "Shouldn't be too difficult, greenlanders never properly value our services anyway."

Victarion spread his hands. "I am the Master of Ships," he said simply.

Aeron straightened in his seat, blinking rapidly, jaw dropping, clearly stunned. "Oh," he said after a long moment. "I see. Congratulations." Shaking his head, he leaned forward again. "Nevertheless, brother, Balon wants you and your men back as quickly as you can sail. He says he needs you to hold the Isles."

"Are the other lords in rebellion?" Victarion asked. Discontent among the ironborn lords wasn't unprecedented, but outright rebellion almost certainly was; Victarion hadn't paid much attention when his father's maester had tried to teach him history.

"No," Aeron admitted, "but Balon fears they might, if something doesn't change. You know that Father's reforms were not exactly welcomed."

Victarion shrugged. "If the lords don't like what Balon's doing, then they're welcome to join us here," he said, gesturing at the walls of his cabin to indicate the harbor outside. "The god knows we need every ship and sailor we can get, and there's no shortage of enemies to pay the iron price to. The Tyroshi sent an emissary just the other sennight telling us to stop freeing their slaves on pain of war." He barked a laugh. "If he hadn't been an emissary under flag of truce, I think Stark would have cut him down on the spot. As it was he told the emissary that he was giving him until sundown to leave the city and that he was freeing all the slaves the man had brought with him. I thought the man was going to have a, a, what do the maesters call it when a blood vessel in your brain explodes?"

Aeron shrugged. "Aneurysm, I think?" he said, sounding out the word hesitantly. "But that's beside the point," he said more seriously. "Uncle Rodrik said you might find it difficult to leave, but Balon said he didn't care. He wants you and your men home. All your men."

Victarion cocked an eyebrow. "Assuming that I could do what Balon is telling me to do," he said, "why would I want to? Can Balon give me command of a fleet with license to paint the seas red with blood and take as much treasure as I please? Can he give me comrades like the freedmen my men are training to be sailors? Can he give me a war the likes of which no Ironborn has fought since Dagon Greyjoy's day?" He spread his hands. "There's nothing Balon can give me that I can't pay the iron price for here, brother. And even if that weren't so," he went on, "I can't hold any titles or lands in Westeros now anyway, not since Stannis' decree."

Aeron waved a hand dismissively. "And since when have the sons of the sea cared for the decrees of greenlanders?" he asked. "I can tell you already that Balon doesn't." He looked Victarion in the eye. "Brother," he said seriously, "you might serve Robert, but Balon is your lord as well as your brother. And he told me to tell you that this isn't a request, it's a command. If you don't obey it, then you won't be welcome home."

Victarion stiffened. "And what," he said slowly, leaning forward as he did so, "gives Balon the right to command me? I am sworn to King Robert of Myr, may the Drowned God grant him strength and glory, and with the Drowned God as my witness I swear that I have never sworn any oath of fealty to Balon. For him to presume on my loyalty like this is very near to an insult."

Aeron stood his ground. "Balon is your rightful lord," he said stubbornly, "and for you to refuse his commands is treason."

Victarion's hand tightened on his goblet until his fingers left dents in the soft gold. "Get out, brother," he snarled, his fighting blood singing softly in his ears, "before I forget the tie of blood between us. And tell Balon that he can take his commands and shove them up his weak arse."

As Aeron strode out of the cabin, Victarion glared at the door for a long minute before throwing his goblet at it in a spasm of fury that also saw him upend the table and break one of his chairs. When he finally calmed down, he walked out of his cabin, down the gangplank, and summoned those of his captains who were still in the port. He had some talking to do, although he would much rather charge a company of spearmen.

XXX

There were times when Tregano Baholis, Chief Justiciar of Pentos in the name of His Excellency the Sealord and the Council of Thirty, dearly wished he could swear. Unfortunately, as the viceroy-in-all-but-name of the largest of Braavos' overseas possessions, he was required to project a certain gravitas that would be entirely overthrown if he employed any of the curses that he had picked up as a young man during the three years he had spent on his father's ships. For one of his position to swear, or jump up and down, or even scowl, was unbecoming.

So as Tregano looked down at the sea of felt tents spread out before the walls of the city, the most reaction he could allow himself was a slight pursing of the lips and a soft drawl of "Hmm. How vexing."

Damn it, everything had been going so well! The conquest had removed enough of the Pentoshi aristocracy that the remainder had not dared to do more than mutter, especially once the first companies of freedmen had been inducted into Braavosi service and trained by the remains of the Company of the Rose; the heads of the Prince of Pentos and the Council of Magisters on their pikes over the gates of the city provided a warning of the consequences of failed rebellion. A cadastral survey had been undertaken and the estates of the magisters broken up into smaller communal farms each worked by a dozen families or so; full productivity wasn't expected for another two or three years, but it served to bind the freedmen's hearts to the Titan with bands of iron. The 'Little Arsenal' was already half-built and a squadron of the Braavosi fleet had been stationed in Pentos in anticipation of it being completed. Braavosi ships sailing out of Pentos had been making money hand over fist transporting Westerosi to Myr, and a few of those Westerosi had taken service with the Sealord and now made up a respectable fraction of Pentos city's garrison; some had been attracted by Lord Merryweather, who was now King Stannis' representative in the city of Pentos, while others were simply less enterprising or less bloodthirsty. He had been considering dispatching an expedition to Ghoyan Drohe to establish an outpost with a view to securing the country there for further expansion.

But the arrival of the Dothraki endangered all those plans. Braavos ordinarily had little to do with the horse-lords; a combination of a low but nonetheless significant mountain range separating Braavos' mainland possessions from the Dothraki Sea and Braavos' general remoteness from the Dothraki's usual hunting grounds meant that it was a rare khalasar indeed that ventured anywhere near Braavos. But the Flatlands were regularly visited by the nomads, and while it would be an infamous capitulation to pay tribute to slavers, as the Dothraki were, provoking a war with the Dothraki would be potentially disastrous. Pentos city would be relatively safe with its walls and its garrison, but the hinterland would be all but indefensible against the nomad cavalry. The towns all had at least a wooden palisade and rudimentary stockpiles of food, but none of them were able to withstand even a mid-sized khalasar; the Dothraki considered it demeaning to fight on foot, but if they were sufficiently inflamed they would do so anyway, and if their siegecraft had deteriorated since the Sarnori wars it was not altogether non-existent. Only Pentos city had walls of sufficient strength and a garrison of sufficient size to withstand an assault. Moreover almost all of the armed forces of Braavos present in Pentos were infantry; good infantry, admittedly, if Tregano said so himself, but infantry nonetheless. Infantry could not hope to catch a khalasar that didn't want to be caught and the two hundred cavalry that Tregano had at his disposal would almost certainly be massacred if they tried to fight a khalasar that, as far as Tregano could tell, numbered at least twenty thousand and possibly as many as thirty thousand.

So while Tregano had considered disobeying the Sealord's orders to reach an accommodation with the Dothraki, he hadn't considered it for very long. For one thing, he was a loyal servant of the republic. For another, attempting to offer resistance would be suicidal. As a party of Dothraki riders cantered towards the Sunrise Gate, Tregano swallowed his disgust and walked down to the gate to meet them.


	33. Chapter 33: Nits Make Lice

_The year 285 ended well for the Kingdom of Myr. Along the southern frontier Lyn Corbray's raiding spree had effectively neutered Lys and Tyrosh's ability to launch an invasion by land. Victarion Greyjoy and Brynden Tully's expansion of the Royal Fleet and the Royal Army proceeded apace, although Brynden reported much swifter progress than Victarion due to the comparative ease of training soldiers. And on the last day of the year King Robert returned to Myr city in triumph, leaving behind him a pacified countryside and a populace whose feelings about their new government ranged from neutral acceptance to fervent enthusiasm. Five days later, heralds issued from the Palace of Justice to announce the ratification of the Great Charter._

_This charter, since described as the founding document of Westerosi-style constitutionalism, was in fact much less radical than its proponents have made it out to be. Of the seventy clauses in the charter, only three established institutions that were even remotely democratic, and those were sharply limited; the council of burghers of each chartered town was limited to an advisory role, as was the council of burghers of the city of Myr, while the Council of Commons only had oversight authority over investigations of nobles and knights who were accused of failing to meet their Charter obligations. If the Great Charter was a pioneering document it was in only two senses. Firstly, it spelled out in explicit language the implicit social contract of feudalism; although exemptions from military service away from their places of residence were granted to certain groups of smallfolk such as skilled craftsmen, no such exemptions existed for the nobility or the chivalry. Every able-bodied male of military age and either noble or knightly rank was obligated to serve at the king's pleasure when summoned, although they were entitled to receive pay commensurate to their rank after forty days. Secondly, it laid the foundations of the authoritarian garrison state that so many latter-day dictators would attempt to copy._

_The need for such a system of government and social control was made brutally apparent a month later, with the launch of the First Slave War . . ._

\- _Freedom or Death: An Overview of the Slave Wars_ by Maester Julian, published 2182 AC

The village on the coast west of Myr was so small it hardly had a name, and certainly not one widely known to outsiders. It boasted only two dozen families, all of whom made their living by a mixture of fishing and truck gardening and none of whom were rich enough to own slaves. They had known virtually nothing of the war except terrifying rumor, but the older and wiser heads of the village had counseled against fear; who would bother with a village as small and as poor as theirs? Even if the rider who had come from Myr city had told the truth when he told them that the Conclave was overthrown and they now had a king, surely he had more important things to worry about than one little fishing village with no wealth to speak of.

And, in large part, their predictions had come true. Aside from that one rider and another who came later to read out the new laws of the kingdom and nail a parchment copy to the door of the boatshed (somewhat pointlessly as no one in the village could read) their new king had left them alone. Life in the village had gone on as it had for as long as anyone could remember, with its endless round of fishing, gardening, the myriad of chores that life in a fishing village entailed, and the usual intricacies of life among so few people is such remote circumstances.

Until the day the raiders came.

The sight of a pair of galleys rounding the headland out of the setting sun had initially been interesting but ultimately nonthreatening; the village had never been visited by a vessel larger than their fishing smacks. When they had descended on the boats returning from a day on the waves and begun to bombard them with crossbow bolts, sling-stones, and javelins, the immediate reaction had been shock. Surely there had been some mistake. But when the galleys beached and soldiers began to disembark and storm up the shingle to the village, shock had turned to terror. The village boasted no weapons more threatening than the harpoons some of the men used to take sturgeon or seal or porpoise and the knives with which the fishermen cleaned and dressed their daily catch, and the men that might have led the resistance were now dead in their boats or turning the surf pink with their blood.

So when the raiders reached the village, only those with the presence of mind to flee without hesitating escaped. For the rest what took place was akin to the end of the world. Armored soldiers with spears and swords rampaged through the village. Any woman of nubile age that they came across was raped and killed, and sometimes not in that order; the old, the very young, and the infirm were simply killed. The one-room cottages that the villagers had lived in were ransacked for any valuables (fruitlessly, in most cases) and then burned.

Under ordinary circumstances, there would have been less in the way of outright murder; alive an unskilled slave could be worth anywhere between ten and seventy silver ducats in the Tyroshi slave markets, while a dead one could only be sold for half a copper denier a pound as fishbait. But half of the raiders were Myrish exiles, seamen who had been abroad when their city was stormed, and with their families almost certainly destroyed and themselves cast adrift on the tides of fate with barely a florin to their names they burned for revenge. Indeed they had refused to sail with their Tyroshi hosts against the Andal invaders unless the Tyroshi pledged to take no prisoners or slaves. Partly this was to prevent the Tyroshi from profiting at Myr's expense but mostly it was driven by unreasoning fury, both against the Andals and against the slaves who had joined them.

As one Myrish captain had told the Archon, "Nits make lice."

The fact that the inhabitants of the village were not liberated slaves, had had nothing to do with the Andals, and had been some of the most inoffensive people in the world did not signify. The only thing that mattered to their executioners was that they had not fought against the Andal invasion and accepted King Robert's rule.

By the time the raiders departed and the four survivors crept back, all that remained of the village was dead bodies and burned homes.

XXX

Jaime Lannister turned in the saddle, glanced out to sea for the tenth time in the past hour, and mentally thanked the gods that he saw no sails on the horizon. The coastal road, which linked Myr city to the towns of Celsa, Navio, and Cillium on the Tyroshi border, ran within long bowshot of the shore for long stretches, and according to Lord Franlan the coasts of the Sea of Myrth were almost perfect for beaching galleys with their gentle shelving and generally shallow tides. Consequently the whole Myrish littoral was vulnerable to the raiding squadrons of the slavers, except for those stretches of coastline that had a squadron of the Royal Fleet cruising directly off them.

The slavers, curse them, had gotten smart. They weren't trying to match the Royal Army strength to strength; indeed they had evacuated the population of their own borderlands to more secure locations deep within their mainland holdings and stripped them of any resources that might support an army. Almost the only thing they hadn't done was try and stop up the springs. With their terrestrial holdings reasonably safe behind the devastated zone of the borders and the walls of their towns, the slavers had unleashed their fleets with orders to scour the Myrish coast of human life. The regular navies of Tyrosh and Lys led the flotillas, backed by Myrish exiles, sellsails, and even, Uncle Gerion had heard, a squadron of volunteer ships from Volantis who had joined for the chance of plunder and slaves. These ships were ranging the length and breadth of the Sea of Myrth, which the Archon of Tyrosh and the Lyseni Conclave had declared closed to all shipping bound for Myr. Victarion Greyjoy, after consultations with Lord Franlan, Ser Brynden, and King Robert, had opted to entrust the naval defense of Myr city to the city's fortifications and taken the twenty longships and ten galleys of the Royal Fleet out to patrol the coast. He couldn't hope to defeat the main body of the enemy fleets in battle, but at the very least he could snap up some of the smaller raiding squadrons and ships foolish enough to sail alone, which by all accounts he was doing with admirable zeal.

But the overriding concern to preserve the fleet as an entity meant that the fleet had to stay together, and even if the fleet had been dispersed they were so few that they could not patrol even half of the coast. So Robert had taken six thousand men, half the Royal Army, and marched out of the city to do what he could for the coastlands. For the most part that meant rounding up the populations of every small village and hamlet within a day's march of the coast and herding them into Myr city or one of the towns, where they could be protected behind stone walls and a garrison. Robert had taken half the relief force and marched up the northward-running part of the coast and given Jaime the other half to clear the western shore.

Jaime hated it. The simple fact was that withdrawing the population into the towns like this was an admission that the kingdom could not adequately defend its own coastline. The only good thing that could be said for the strategy was that it protected the people, who were the most precious resource the kingdom had, and demonstrated to them that kingdom took their safety seriously; while there had been some difficulties posed by the influx of hundreds of people with no more possessions than those they could carry on their backs, the young men had flooded into the ranks of the Iron Legions. It also provided new arrivals from Westeros with reason to hate the slavers; twice now Jaime's column had come across a village that had been devastated by the raiders before the Army had arrived, and the sight of women and children left to rot unburied was enough to harden anyone's heart against the perpetrator. One young volunteer, a brash young man named Joren Potts, had led a clutch of other youngsters of a similar age in swearing a mighty oath to leave not one stone atop another when Tyrosh was taken.

Jaime snorted in sudden humor. A fine thing for him to call someone _youngster_, at the hoary old age of twenty; Joren was barely three years his junior. Of course, few of the volunteers had ever been in a battle to equal Tara or the taking of Myr. Most of the older ones had fought in the War of the Ninepenny Kings, and some had fought in Dorne during the recent rebellion, but otherwise the only wars in Westeros had been the armed pissing matches that the minor lords engaged in to better define the pecking order. Set against the wars here, those squabbles were swiftly revealed for the petty affairs that they were.

Jaime flicked his eyes out to sea and scanned the horizon again, snarling to himself in the privacy of his mind as he did so. This feeling of vulnerability was a new experience for him and he already hated it as much as conceding the advantage to the enemy.

_After the initial storm of coastal raiding, the pace of the war slowed to a crawl. The sequestration of the coast's inhabitants into the fortified towns starved the slaver fleets of easy targets, and the strength of those towns' garrisons and fortifications, along with the companies of the Royal Army that marched from town to town along the coastal road, precluded any attempt at assaulting them. And in any case, the slavers were only loosely allied by their common enmity and lacked the cohesion and communications technology that would have been necessary to concentrate their forces and attempt to take one of the towns by storm._

_On the other hand, the Kingdom of Myr could not force the slaver fleets to abandon the Sea of Myrth. The Royal Fleet simply did not have the numbers to attempt a decisive engagement; against the almost four hundred galleys and dromonds that the slavers had put into the Sea of Myrth, Victarion could muster only twenty longships and ten galleys, and the danger posed by the enemy's control of the Sea of Myrth prevented the training of new crews. The best Victarion could do was prowl along the coast and attempt to pick off any raiders foolish enough to be caught at a disadvantage._

_The stalemate that this set of circumstances engendered, with neither of the two belligerents able to strike a decisive blow at each other, is almost certainly the origin of the phrase "turtle war", which in later years would acquire the unspoken connotations of either cowardice or impotence, depending on the commentator. In the First Slave War, it was a policy that the Kingdom of Myr was forced to adopt out of necessity, and which in the absence of outside influence would only have been brought to an end by the exhaustion of the combatants._

_However, no human activity is undertaken in a vacuum, and the First Slave War was no exception . . ._

\- _Storm and Fury: The Battle for the Center of the World_ by Maester Barnabas, published 2036.


	34. Chapter 34: Iron and Bloodriders

_The First Slave War affected not only the immediate combatants but societies hundreds of miles away. The quadrilateral formed by Lys, Tyrosh, Planky Town, and Stonehelm was the crossroads between two worlds, that of the Narrow Sea and that of Slaver's Bay. Through that quadrilateral passed timber, pelts, grain, cloth, wine, peppers, and salt from Westeros, Braavosi dyes and manufactures, Pentoshi cheeses and jewelry, Lyseni tapestries and perfumes, Tyroshi armor and pear brandy, and, before the war, Myrish lace, carpets, lenses, and glassware, all shipped eastward to Volantis and the cities of Slaver's Bay. As they did so they passed silk, spice, gems, and other rarities that had originated in the Jade Sea and been brought west by Volantene, Ghiscari, and Qartheen merchants, although the value of these transshipped luxury goods was dwarfed by the convoys of slave ships that were the true lifeblood of trade east of the Narrow Sea._

_The war had disrupted this web of trade to an unsettling degree. Although most of the naval fighting was restricted to the Sea of Myrth, the Myrish exiles who made up almost a third of the allied fleets proved unwilling to restrain themselves and expanded the naval war beyond Myrish waters. A much-talked-about plan to sack King's Landing in revenge for the Sunset Company's sailing to Essos came to nothing, but raids on the coasts of Dorne and the Stormlands became more frequent and more savage with every month that the stalemate in the Sea of Myrth progressed, while Westerosi ships were only safe from attack if they sailed in convoy with a naval escort either from the royal fleet or the Braavosian Navy. This undeclared war was the proving ground for Stannis' new fleet and the making of the reputations of a generation of new Westerosi captains, most notably Euron Greyjoy._

_It was this disruption to trade that aroused the interest of the Seven Kingdoms and, more importantly, of Braavos. The Bastard Daughter of Valyria relied on trade as no other society did in those years, for its hinterland barely produced enough food to feed its population. It was trade that provided the money necessary to buy the grain, meat, fish, and other foodstuffs necessary to provide the level of sustenance that Braavos' citizens were accustomed to, and trade that paid for the fleet that guarded the ships those foodstuffs arrived in. Indeed it was that same reliance on foreign food, procured at reasonable prices at reliable times, that had partially driven the conquest of Pentos; the abolitionist cause had provided an undeniable moral justification, but the Pentoshi hinterland was far more fertile than Braavos', and an analysis of documents from the 270s and early 280s shows a slow, but nonetheless steady increase in the price of Pentoshi grain. _

_So when Stannis sent an embassy to Braavos under the leadership of Lord Arryn, he found a receptive audience both in the Council of Thirty and in the keyholders of the Iron Bank, which had been forced to increase its insurance rates for vessels traveling in the southern Narrow Sea. But while Lord Arryn conferred with the Sealord, another piece was entering the gameboard . . ._

\- _Chasing Dragons: The Sunset Company Reexamined _by Maester Hendricus, published 1539 AC

Ser Rickon looked over the organized chaos of the docks and nodded. "All in order, then, my lord?" he asked.

"Aye," rumbled Erik Ironmaker, who by virtue of his reputation and his standing as the only lord to have sailed with the fleet bound for Myr had assumed command. "The Dornishmen gouged us for every copper they could, but we have water and provisions enough to get us to Myr, at least."

"Speaking of which, word just reached us from King's Landing," Rickon said. "The rumors that Lord Castellan Euron reported from Ghaston Grey are confirmed; Lys and Tyrosh have declared war on the Kingdom of Myr."

Erik threw his head back and laughed. "Excellent!" he shouted. "We'll catch them between the hammer and the anvil, by the god!" He rubbed his hands with an expression of gleeful anticipation. "Let the Tyroshi look to their oars and their blades, if they want to keep the seas to themselves."

"Are you sure you'll be able to get through?" Rickon asked carefully. "I mean no disrespect, my lord, but not all of the people in your fleet are warriors." Indeed from where he and Lord Ironmaker were standing he could see at least three Ironborn women, one of whom was either unfortunately chubby or else in the early stages of pregnancy.

Erik waved a hand. "The women knew the risks when they shipped out with us," he said. "And our women are not so soft as yours, greenlander. All true children of the Isles have iron in their bones."

Rickon gestured acceptance; the thought of women deliberately going into danger made him mildly nauseous, but he didn't have command in this matter; best to let Erik do as he deemed best. "I'll admit when I heard how many of you had come, I thought the Commander here was lying to me," he said, gesturing at the fleet that filled the harbor of Planky Town. One hundred longships, like so many floating daggers, bobbed alongside the piers, along with a dozen fatter knarrs that were being steadily filled with provisions and water casks under the watchful eyes of their captains. Altogether there were just over eight thousand Ironborn milling around the harborside, and the majority of them were either young men no older than their early twenties, or older men a decade or two younger than Erik; old and young alike were armed to the teeth with spears, axes, long and heavy-bladed knives, a few swords and hammers, and the round central-bossed shields that the Ironborn favored. Thank the gods that the avarice of the Dornish merchants hadn't resulted in violence, although the expressions of relief and glee evident on every merchant's face may have gone some way to reducing tensions; Planky Town had seen little commerce for the past several months, and every household had been feeling the pinch. The opportunity to buy and sell with a fleet of Ironborn must have seemed like a miracle. "Now I'm just amazed that Lord Balon can spare so many fighting men."

Erik spat off the side of the dock into the water. "That, for Balon," he said darkly. "The fool tried to forbid our sailing, as if we were greenlanders to be penned like cattle. If we hadn't needed to catch the tide, I'd have broken his jaw then and there. No, ser knight, you'll find little enough love for Balon among us." He gestured at his countrymen. "Some of the youngsters are newlyweds looking for a better life than they can find on the Isles, trying to scratch a living out of the soil like thralls or feed a family with only a small fishing boat. Others are young men hoping to take enough gold for a bride-price, or the fame to seek a wife at all. The older men are mostly old salts who're too restless to farm or fish and were just this side of pirates before they joined us. For my own part," the old Ironborn lord turned to face Rickon, his white hair and his scarred, weathered face giving him the look of some sea-god's idol brought to life. "I am old, ser knight," he said simply, "so old that I sailed with Dagon Greyjoy in my youth, and was a friend to those who also sailed with him. Ah, those were _men_, ser knight; Black Urron, Andrik Hammerhand, Hagen Pyke, Ragnor Nine-Fingers, Ralf the Dancer, Sigfryd Hardhead . . . " Rickon was taken aback to see a hint of a tear in the old Ironborn's eye as he sighed heavily. "All dead and gone save me, either in Dagon's war or on later voyages. I alone remain of that crew, and if I die in my bed I will not see them again. The Drowned God takes us all to his halls when we die, but my old shipmates will not accept me in their company unless I die in battle, as they did." Erik turned to stare out at the eastern horizon. "I have sons and grandsons to carry on my name," he said softly. "I settled my affairs before I sailed, and gave Iron Hall to my heir. I would make a song before the Drowned God takes me."

Rickon nodded. The Faith had a similar teaching in that only those who died in battle could enter the Heaven of the Warrior. "I'll pray for your success then," he said, "and offer you some more news. A report from the Royal Customs Officer in White Harbor claimed that Maege Mormont was also setting sail for Essos with fifteen hundred Northmen. King Stannis has ordered that those ships under construction for the royal fleet be completed and run through their sea trials at best speed, and that the rest of the fleet prepare to sail and fight on three days' notice. Dragonstone has been ordered to lay in provisions and military stores sufficient to resupply thirty galleys."

Erik cocked an eyebrow. "Does Stannis mean to take a hand in this war?" he asked.

Rickon shrugged. "I know not," he answered, "nor would it be likely that I would be informed unless there were some danger to Dorne and the king's interests here. In any case I have not heard that the royal fleet was yet strong enough to contemplate fighting both Lys and Tyrosh."

Erik nodded. "No more had I," he said. "Takes time to build a fleet; time and good sailors." He turned back to the bustling harbor. "We'll give King Robert a fleet though," he said. "And we'll see how the slavers fight against true sons of the sea."

"If I may make a suggestion, my lord," Rickon said slowly, not wanting to give offense, "take care. Animals are most dangerous when they're frightened; people aren't much different. After Myr, the slavers have reason to be very frightened."

Erik smiled a carnivorous smile. "All the better," he said confidently, stroking the head of the massive hammer thrust into his belt. "Frightened men fight stupidly."

XXX

Robert turned from Maester Gordon's explanation of the improvements his Pioneers were making to the battlements of the town of Almus at a slight cough from one of his bodyguards, his initial frown turning into a smile at the sight of a familiar face. "Master Nestoris!" he cried, striding forward and clasping hands with Vito Nestoris. "It's been too long, man! How is the Bank treating you these days?"

"Well enough, Your Grace, thank you," Vito replied with a bow over their clasped hands before turning gracefully and gesturing to the man standing next to him. "Allow me to present to Your Grace Giulio Armati, Special Envoy of the Sealord and the Council of Thirty." Giulio, a sparely built man of about thirty with a rectangular face, neat as a black mouse in his hose, close-fitting doublet, and unadorned cloak, swept off his flat black cap, adorned only with a small silver badge depicting the Titan of Braavos, and bowed deeply.

Robert gestured for him to rise impatiently. "Come, Master Giulio, give your hand like a man," he said. "Friends need not stand on ceremony with each other." Giulio rose slowly, looking somewhat nonplussed, and eventually shook Robert's hand tentatively. "Shall we move indoors?" Robert asked, gesturing at the walkway they were standing on. "This is not exactly a council chamber."

"That will not be necessary, Your Grace," Vito said calmly. "Six days ago we were riding out from the northern gate of Myr city and we have not left the saddle since except in necessity; it will be good to stand for a time. In any case we have been charged to waste not a moment if it can be helped.

Robert blinked, six days from Myr city to Almus on its northern border would be hard and fast riding even for him, and looked over the two Braavosi again. Both were unshaven, and their clothes, usually so neatly immaculate, were rumpled and travel-stained. Clearly they had taken their charge of haste seriously. "Very well then," he said, hooking his thumbs into his sword-belt as he leaned against a merlon, "what news from Braavos?"

"His Excellency the Sealord and the Council of Thirty wish to invite you to a conference in the city of Pentos, to be held in three sennights' time," Giulio replied. "It is their intention to find some solution to this present conflict that all parties will find agreeable, in order to restore peace to the Narrow Sea and allow the resumption of regular commerce."

Robert cocked an eyebrow. "In the first place," he said skeptically, "I happen to be at war; I can't just up and bugger off to Pentos at the drop of a hat. Secondly, I'll be damned if I negotiate with fucking slavers."

"The Sealord and the Council are aware of these difficulties, Your Grace," Giulio answered smoothly. "This is why the conference is being held in Pentos under the auspices of third parties. Both the Sealord and the Council have asked me to assure you that you will not be thought the worse of by them if you refuse to accept any agreement that may be produced. They ask only that you attend and listen with open ears."

"Third parties, plural?" asked Maester Gordon, rolling up his plans. "Who else is hosting the conference?"

"The Sealord approached Your Grace's brother King Stannis to solicit his assistance in bringing about this conference," Giulio replied. "He proved amenable, and will be sending his Hand Lord Arryn to serve as his representative."

Robert pursed his lips meditatively. If he had to pick any man aside from Ned to make sure that everyone at this conference played by the rules, he would pick Jon; his foster-father might be an old stick at times, but he could read a man like a book and play him like an instrument. He would bet anything that Jon was providing most of Stannis' brains these days. _Be fair, man,_ he chided himself. _He would have done the same for you, like as not, if you couldn't have Ned._ Speaking of whom . . . "Why do you want me, specifically, to attend?" he asked. "This sort of thing is why I have a Hand; you'd have met him in Myr."

"We did, as a matter of fact," said Giulio, his bland expression suddenly shadowed by a slight frown. "I am instructed to convey to Your Grace the regrets of the Sealord and the Council that they do not consider Lord Stark to be a suitable representative."

Robert's jaw dropped. "Bells of the hells, why?" he asked when he finally got over his shock. "I trust Ned more than any man alive."

"Lord Stark assured the Council and the Sealord's representative that Your Grace had no intent to assume the government of Myr," Giulio said, spreading his hands. "And yet here we are."

"Your Grace," Vito interjected, "When I followed your company to Pentos I had the opportunity to observe Lord Stark rather closely. I am but a humble functionary of the Bank, but I have some skill at discerning a man's character and I saw no hint of duplicity in Lord Stark's nature. That being the case, the Sealord and the Council must assume one of two things, and I pray Your Grace not take offense as I enumerate them." He held up a slender finger. "One: Lord Stark has sufficient skill at lying to fool more than a dozen of the most discerning men in Braavos, including the First Sword, who among other things was chosen specifically for his skill at perceiving a man's true nature." Vito paused as Robert threw his head back and laughed uproariously at the thought of Ned Stark, consummate liar. When Robert finally calmed down enough to motion for him to continue, he raised a second finger. "Two: Lord Stark was not operating with full knowledge of Your Grace's intentions when he was negotiating with us, demonstrating thereby that he does not, in fact, have the utmost confidence of Your Grace."

Vito spread his hands. "In either case, Your Grace, the remedy is clear to the Sealord and the Council; the only man they may assume has full knowledge of Your Grace's designs is Your Grace yourself, which makes you the only man we may negotiate with and be confident that any agreements will be properly adhered to. I must add, Your Grace, that this is also the view of the keyholders of the Iron Bank. After all, it was they as much as First Sword Forel whom Lord Stark so effectively fooled."

Robert opened his mouth to roar at the man who had just cast aspersions on his honor and that of his best friend, and then closed his mouth as he thought it through. Bloody hells, when it was put that way he could see the Braavosi's point. He'd have a hard time trusting or believing someone who suckered him with a straight face, whether he had meant to or not. He turned to Ser Dafyn Otley, who as one of the lieutenants of his bodyguard had command of the half-company on duty today. "How quickly can the household be on the road to Pentos?" he asked.

Ser Dafyn glanced at the sun, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Daybreak tomorrow, if we start preparing within the hour," he said eventually. "Noon, if we take more than essential baggage."

"Essential baggage only," Robert said firmly. "I assume the conference will begin within a sennight or two," he glanced at Giulio and Vito, who nodded confirmation. "Plan to be on the road for eight to eleven days, in Pentos for fourteen days, and then traveling back here immediately after. No wagons, no carts; packhorses only, and every man mounted." He turned to Giulio and Vito. "I assume the slavers will be there as well?"

Giulio nodded. "Representatives from Lys and Tyrosh will be attending in addition to Your Grace and Lord Arryn," he replied. "We are reasonably certain that the Lyseni Conclave at least desires a swift return to peace. The Archon," Giulio made a face, "may need some persuading."

Robert nodded and turned back to Ser Dafyn. "No man comes who cannot fight," he said. "I don't trust these slavers any further than I can kick them." Neither of the Braavosi reacted, to Robert's mild disappointment; his comment had come very near to implying that he didn't trust them to keep the peace at their own conference on their own territory. _They deserve it for not trusting Ned._ "Masters, I pray you excuse us," he said to the Braavosi. "I have business to attend to before we ride tomorrow."

"But Your Grace," Maester Gordon said suddenly, "who are you leaving in command?"

"Ned will rule in my absence, I'll sign papers to that effect tonight," Robert replied. "As for who will command here," he smiled at Gordon, "you will. Congratulations on your promotion, don't let the town get sacked. Or if you do, have the good manners to die trying to prevent it and spare me the effort of having you executed."

His jocular tone, beaming smile, and hearty clap on Gordon's shoulder didn't seem to have the intended effect of showing the maester that he was only joking about the execution; Gordon was still standing there, his mouth opening and closing like a landed fish, as Robert and Ser Dafyn walked toward the town to inform the household of the new change in plans. Later that night, after signing the warrant placing power in Ned's hands while he was in Pentos, Robert leaned back and smiled at the thought of seeing Jon's face when he walked into the council chamber as a king. _Mad harebrained venture eh, Jon, _he thought as he poured himself a glass and smiled through the door at Alaesa where she sat invitingly on the bed. _I don't think I've done too badly so far._

XXX

Sajo, ko to Khal Zirqo, smiled in anticipation as the khalasar rode into the Myrish lands. It had been too long since they had come this way.

Khal Zirqo was one of the _hrakkar_ of the plains, unquestioned ruler of a khalasar twenty-five thousand strong. Ten of the bells in his braid had been gotten in battle against khalasars almost as strong as his, and when he visited the cities of the walkers they all but fell over themselves to provide him gifts. Even Khal Drogo, whose fame and dread had already spread across the plains before his twenty-fifth year, spoke softly to Khal Zirqo when they met at Vaes Dothrak and gave him gifts of honor. Zirqo might be past forty, but he had last cut his hair at the age of sixteen, and age had only tempered his strength with wisdom.

So when Zirqo had heard of the wars that had taken place among the slaver cities, he had led his khalasar across the Rhoyne to see for himself. As he had explained to Sajo and the other khals, whether the walkers who had held power when last the khalasar had rode this way still held power or not, their war would have weakened them enough that their gifts would be all the greater; the better to earn the khal's forbearance while they were weak. And if their wars had weakened them enough that their gifts proved insufficient, then they would be weak enough that the khalasar could take their own gifts. Sajo's smile turned carnivorous at the thought. The gifts that the walkers gave were good enough, in their way, but it was known that they gave only a portion of their treasures, and not the best portion. The thought of being able to choose for himself from the goods of a walker's house, from his cloth and wine and slaves and women . . . it was almost enough to make Sajo salivate.

And the khal's predictions had been borne out. Six gold dinars, minted in the vaults of the Iron Bank, stamped with the head of the Titan, and with the hole punched through the center to show that the khal of Braavos' tax had been paid, could buy Khal Zirqo's favorite horse, or so Sajo had been told. Fifty such dinars would buy a house in one of the walkers' cities or a mating-slave from the walkers of Lys.

The new khal of Pentos, who it seemed was in truth a ko of Braavos, had given forty _thousand_ gold dinars to Khal Zirqo alone, along with ten thousand each to Sajo and the other two kos, and the value of another ten thousand in silver and bronze dinars, so that each of the eleven thousand warriors of the kahalasar had a string of silver and bronze coins attached to the line of his reins so that they jingled as he rode. In addition to the coin there had also been bolts of richly dyed cloth, casks of stinging wine and rich beer, and a sumptuous feast. It had almost made up for the fact that the khal of Pentos had refused outright to give them any slaves. It was, he had said with great dignity, against the will of the Braavosi's gods for them to keep or give slaves, and rather than transgress against that commandment they would fight to the death. Khal Zirqo, for his part, had accepted the explanation, enjoyed the proffered feast with good cheer, and on the road southward he had allowed his kos to attack one village each and take their people as slaves.

Sajo sighed reminiscently; it was good to have a khal who was mindful of his followers and generous with those that pleased him. Zirqo had even told them that they could keep all the slaves they had taken without giving him a gift of the best, as was customary. Sajo and his fellow kos, Hazo and Pobo, had given the khal the best of the slaves they had taken anyway; it was bad luck to reward generosity with stinginess, as the khal himself had demonstrated to the Braavosi. Hopefully the Andals who had taken Myr would have better manners than the Braavosi.

On the other hand, they might not be. The khal-of-Pentos-who-was-truly-a-ko-of-Braavos had claimed that the Andals who had taken Myr were fierce warriors, and were also forbidden by their gods from keeping or giving slaves. He had waxed especially eloquent about their steel-covered horsemen who made the ground quake under their charge, and their archers who could darken the sky with their shafts. Their khal, it had been claimed, was a giant of a man taller and broader than any man in the khalasar who fought with a hammer that an ordinary man could barely lift, while the least of his kos was a finer swordsman than any in their homeland across the poison water. Their gods fought at their side, the slaves that had been taken from the Pentoshi villages had claimed, and every man of them fought like _hrakkar_ as a result.

Sajo spat on the ground by his horse's right fore-hoof; walkers all lied, it was known. The Andals who came to the plains were weak and cowardly creatures, giving gifts to any who asked them and never raising a hand to defend themselves, even against insults that would have even a Dothraki woman shrieking with fury and reaching for her husband's arakh. And even if these Andals did fight, there were no fighters in the world who could match the Dothraki. The plains were littered with the ruined cities of those who had tried.

So when Sajo saw a pair of men on horseback burst out of a ravine and gallop away southward, he held his riders back. It would only be polite, he explained to Khal Zirqo that evening when he made his report, to allow the Andals time to gather a sufficient quantity of suitable gifts. The khal laughed loud and long at the jest. 


	35. Chapter 35: Rolling the Iron Dice

It was a very different army that was marching out of Myr, Eddard reflected, from the army that had taken it. The heart and soul of that army had been Westerosi, although the freedmen had become an important appendage that helped to fill their ranks. The army that marched past him out of the Great Eastern Gate was almost entirely Myrish; except for a few officers in the infantry, fifty archers, and the two hundred knights and heavy horse, every man marching under the paired banners of the Crown and the Iron Legion had either been born or had lived most of their lives east of the Narrow Sea. Partly that was due to the fact that most of the Westerosi-born soldiers in the Royal Army had marched with Robert and Jaime to defend the coastlands, but it was also a fact of numbers. The months between the taking of Myr and the closing of the Sea of Myrth due to this new war had seen a flood of volunteers come across the Narrow Sea, but even so Eddard didn't believe that there were more than ten or eleven thousand Westerosi of all descriptions in the Kingdom of Myr. If the new kingdom was to not only survive, but _thrive_, it depended on the men marching past him.

On the face of it, they were certainly promising material, even though only a few of them were veterans of Tara or the taking of Myr; most of those veterans had marched away with Robert. Each man wore at least a padded jack made up of quilted layers of linen and leather, while some men wore brigandines or ring- or scale-mail shirts that had been taken from slaver corpses. Their armor also included an arming cap and a helmet, most often either a halfhelm or a kettle helmet, although a few wore greathelms, barbutes, or bascinets scavenged from dead men-at-arms or knights. For weapons they carried either a kite shield and a seven-foot spear or a crossbow and forty bolts, with a shortsword at each man's left hip. Their officers, either former sergeants from Westeros or Essosi-born freedmen who had been promoted for ability and initiative, carried a glaive, a bill, or a halberd, both to help straighten the lines of their men and to provide each company with weapons that would be more effective against armored enemies; there was no proper equivalent to the Andal knight in Essos, but Tyroshi and Qohorik armor was famous even in Westeros, and the slaver cities had the wealth to put at least some men in full plate.

As for the men themselves, the faces under the helmet-brims were uniformly resolute behind the beards and moustaches that almost all of them had taken to cultivating; slaves had been forbidden from growing out their facial hair under Myrish law, apparently in order to allow them to be distinguished at a glance from the free-born. Each man wore the spear-and-broken-chain emblem of the Legion stitched onto their jack, often supplemented with either the seven-pointed star of the Faith or the fiery heart of R'hllor. Their marching didn't quite have the same degree of belligerent confidence of the veterans, but veteran or not, three thousand spearmen and a thousand crossbowmen marching in step made the earth tremble, and Eddard saw nothing in the infantry that hinted of fear.

"I still say this is risky," Ser Gerion grumbled at his side. "This is most of the remaining garrison you're marching away with, and the men you'll be meeting from Sirmium and Campora will be most of the proven men of _their_ garrisons. If the horselords beat you, we will be all but naked unless we yield the coastlands to the slavers."

"You still have the walls," Eddard said, gesturing at the gatehouse looming above them. "And I'm leaving you five hundred spears and two thousand crossbows, along with the City Watch and whatever men you can train with the crossbows we're leaving behind. That was almost enough to beat _us_, and we're much better at storming fortifications than the Dothraki are. Even if the slavers try and attack the city you should be fine."

"It's still risky," Gerion said, brushing a fly away from his horse's neck irritably. "If anyone aside from Robert can hold this kingdom together it's you, if only because you're Robert's foster-brother. You should trust the Blackfish to fight this battle for you, if the Dothraki decide to fight."

Eddard shook his head. "We can't afford to stay out of this," he answered. "We have to show the freedmen that our lordship over them is justified, that we won't shirk our share of the fighting just because we've become the lords of this land. Why do you think I'm taking every knight that can be spared from the garrison and the Watch?"

Gerion scowled. "You don't need to lecture me on the duties of a knight," he said sourly. "I _am_ a knight, after all. I just want to be sure that you're not leading this army out just because you want to make your name as a great captain."

"I already have a name, after Tara and the siege," Eddard said, "I don't need another. What I _do_ need, what this kingdom needs, is to show our people that we can and will fight to the death against every slaver on this continent." He shrugged. "We can shout 'Death to the slavers' from the rooftops all we want, but we have to show that we _mean_ it. If we slacken even once, if we give the slavers even one inch of ground or one day of peace, then we tell our people that we aren't serious about the fight for freedom." Eddard looked back at the river of men marching out of the gates. "The Dothraki call the tribute they levy 'gifts', Akhollo tells me," he said softly. "The only gifts this kingdom can give to slavers are the gifts of fire and sword. If ever we give anything else, that is the day we start to die."

Gerion chewed on the ends of his moustache for a moment as he thought over Eddard's words, then shrugged. "Well and so," he said grumpily. "But I still say it's risky."

"Is there any part of this empris that is _not_ risky?" Eddard asked, gesturing at the city walls. "If we have come this far it is because we have rolled the iron dice without thought of cost. The only thing to do is keep rolling."

XXX

Ser Leofric gestured for Septon Jaspar to sit and poured him a glass of wine. "My son thinks you are hearing my confession," he said, pushing the glass across the table, "and the tale of my sins is not so great that telling of them would take very long. What do you want?"

Jaspar leaned forward. "I have sufficient evidence to convict Septon Jonothor of heresy," he said, his voice unfortunately brittle-sounding even when he was speaking softly. "Twenty minutes of questioning in front of the Most Devout and I can have him condemned to the fire."

Leofric sat back in his light campaign chair. "Quite the claim," he said finally. "Defend it, if you please."

"The heart of it is that Jonothor is defying the teachings of the Faith," Jaspar said, his brittle voice turning pedantic. "The Council of Stony Sept in 452 BC declared that salvation is contingent upon belief in the Seven and the performance of good works in accordance with their laws. This is why those who follow the Old Gods are barred from the Heavens and must suffer in Purgatory until the last day, regardless of their merits in this life." Leofric nodded; as the eldest son he had been destined to inherit Heart's Home instead of becoming a septon, but everyone learned the basic doctrines of the Faith. "Jonothor's commendation of Faithless dead to the care of the Seven, however, relies on the idea that belief in the Seven is not necessary; that salvation can be attained through good works alone. In this case, dying in the wars of this kingdom." Jaspar spread his hands. "It is unquestionably heretical," he said triumphantly. "No man can enter the Heavens unless he believes in the Seven and keeps their commandments. In advocating otherwise, Jonothor is directly contravening the doctrines of the Faith. I would be perfectly justified in ordering you to strike off his head at the next opportunity."

Leofric cocked an eyebrow. "In the first place," he began slowly, marshalling his thoughts as he went, "suicide is a mortal sin, and attacking Jonothor would count as suicide; I've seen how the freedmen infantry who follow the Seven regard him, much less the knights. In the second place, to kill a man without a trial and a sentence of death is murder, also a deadly sin. In the third place, the only place where Jonothor can be fairly tried is in King's Landing." He gestured at the walls of the tent to indicate the encampment beyond. "There happens to be a war on, if you hadn't noticed; even if we could get Jonothor back to Myr city, onto a ship, and across the Narrow Sea, we would be rightly condemned as deserters and oath-breakers."

"When Jaehaerys the Conciliator placed the Faith under his protection, he swore an oath that the crown would defend the Faith against heresy as well as its other enemies," Jaspar replied, glowering. "I invoke that oath, ser knight, and the oath you swore when you received the accolade to protect the Faith. Do your duty."

Leofric slapped his hand down on the table. "Do not lecture me on my duty, septon," he growled. "I was defending the Faith when you were still a bulge in your father's trousers." That was quite literally true on both counts; Jaspar had to be half Leofric's age, if that. And the hill tribes of the Mountains of the Moon hated septons even more than knights; knights didn't forcibly convert captured children or burn their sacred groves with their shamans tied to the heart tree, they just killed them. What the tribesmen did to a sept they had overrun, or to a septon or a begging brother caught on the road, was enough to give even hardened soldiers nausea. "If there is evidence that Jonothor is a heretic," he continued, gritting his teeth, "then I will take such action as I deem fit. And hear me," he aimed a finger at Jaspar, "when Jaehaerys swore to protect the Faith, the Faith swore to respect the king's right to try and execute criminals. I do not care who your uncle may or may not be; in matters of the sword, _I _hold authority and you have no more right to command than the lowliest page in this army." He hadn't seen any family resemblance between Jaspar and the High Septon, but likenesses didn't always run in families; Leofric, for one, looked nothing like the one half-brother he knew of. And for a man as young as Jaspar to be given a duty this important at such a young age generally took either great ability or great influence. Jaspar certainly had ability, even if his style of preaching tended to grate and he was a little harsh with the penances he handed out, but he was still a tad young to be sent to sniff out a potential heretic. Unless someone in charge of making such decisions thought he had what it took.

As Jaspar stalked out of the tent, Leofric glared at the bottle of wine, eventually deciding against another glass. These days drinking to excess made him sluggish and crabby the next morning and deliberately incapacitating yourself while on campaign was a stupid idea. Besides, he reflected grumpily as he stowed the bottle in its case, it was his own damned fault for swearing contradictory oaths. At his age he really should have known better.

That self-knowledge didn't keep him from staying up half the night praying to the Crone for the wisdom to see a way out of the mess he had landed himself in. Come morning he was no closer to a solution than he had been the evening before and he was as snappish as if he had drained the bottle. _I might as well have gotten drunk_, he thought to himself grouchily as he swung himself onto his horse.

XXX

Marq Grafton sat down in his chair, automatically compensating for the gentle roll of his ship _Gulltown's Pride _as he did so, while his manservant set out a pair of goblets and a decanter of wine, the last of the Arbor red, and placed a cushion on the chair across the table from him. A successful escape deserved an appropriate celebration.

Marq prided himself on being a practical man with a keen mind and a gift for logic. It was why he had been one of the richest lords in the Vale, second only to Jon Arryn and that only because the old man had taken an unreasonable share of the customs duties on cargos that landed on the Gulltown docks. Ancient privilege or not, there had been no reason for it; Jon, ever the proper lord and the perfect gentle knight, had refused to dirty his hands with the intimate details of trade. Marq's fingers tightened on the arm of his chair as he remembered how the old man had looked down that overlarge nose at him, as if the interest he took in commerce made him some sort of lesser being. The Graftons were at least as old a house as the Arryns, if not older, and featured just as prominently in the old legends about the conquest of the Vale. A Grafton had fought at Artys Arryn's side at the Battle of the Seven Stars, and Grafton knights had harried the mountain tribesmen as fiercely as those of any other Vale house. And yet he had never been given his proper due of respect, simply because he took the interest in trade necessary to make his house thrive beyond what their lands alone could support, so that he could leave his sons a greater patrimony than he had received from his father.

So when Rhaegar had promised not just a remission of royal taxes on imports into Gulltown but positions of honor for Marq and his sons, he had taken his fleet and joined the Minstrel Prince's court of exiles. And while his enthusiasm for the dragon's cause had waned after Tara, the flight to Volantis, and Rhaegar's death, he had remained faithful; there was still Viserys, after all, and the child Queen Praela had been carrying might have been a son. But the Queen had birthed a daughter, and the day after the Triarchs of Volantis had informed them that they would not support or endorse Viserys' claim to the Iron Throne, although they would allow the exiles to remain in the city in token of the past courtesies that House Targaryen had paid to Volantis the mighty.

Marq had begun plotting the same night. It was plain for anyone with the eyes to see and the wits to calculate that without significant support from Volantis, the best that the Targaryens could hope for was to become sellswords, and Marq didn't want that life for his sons and grandsons. Nor had he been alone. Both his own sailors and the men of the royal fleet had not signed up for a life of permanent exile; they had all believed, had all been _promised_, that a year or two would see the Baratheons thrown down and the dragon restored to its rightful throne, with rewards for every man who kept faith. But that year had run its course, Rhaegar was dead and gone to ashes, and the only remaining dragons were a ten year-old boy and an infant girl, with the cause of the Targaryens in the hands of their two remaining Kingsguards and a glorified cloth-monger. Clearly it was time to get out of it while they still had a chance; Rahtheon's pockets might be deep, but they couldn't maintain a fleet of one hundred and eighty ships and pay their sailors indefinitely.

Marq had had the means and the motive, and the opportunity had arisen when a little man had come to him and explained that the Triarchs would consider it a favor if he removed the main force of the Targaryens from their control; Volantis, it seemed, had less-than-fond memories of the dragonlords of old Valyria, despite their protestations of amity to the current heirs of those dragonlords. A plan had quickly taken shape around that scaffolding. All that had been missing was the sweetener.

A knock on the door of the cabin, and his manservant's announcement of "Her Grace the Queen," brought Marq to his feet with a practiced smile on his face. It was even mostly genuine; Praela not only had all the accomplishments a young woman of her class should have, she was very easy on the eyes. A bit too dark for Marq's tastes, with her skin a shade or two darker than olive, but pretty enough with her heart-shaped face and black eyes. She didn't quite match Marq's memories of Elia Martell, for one thing she wasn't as slender as the Dornish princess had been, but he could certainly see how she had caught Rhaegar's eye.

Nor was she alone; a tall man with the ebony skin of a Summer Islander was carrying a locked chest in his massive arms. It took much of Marq's self-control to not start drooling at the sight of it. Instead he bowed over Praela's hand, with the same ceremony and propriety as if they were at court, gestured her to her seat, which his manservant pulled out for her with millimetric correctness, and poured wine for them both, raising his goblet in a toast. "To our success, Your Grace, and the blessing of the Gods on our venture," he said, letting a twinkle enter his eye.

"To a most excellently managed escape, my lord," Praela purred. "I know little enough of such enterprises, but I am led to understand that preparing a fleet to sail in complete secrecy and effecting an escape from a guarded harbor is quite difficult."

"Courage, good judgment, and divine favor make all things possible, Your Grace," Marq said, placing his goblet on the table and not mentioning the fact that the Triarchs had given orders that their escape not be contested. "And for a lady so fair as yourself, I would undertake ventures more difficult still." Especially if he could have someone like Praela herself assisting; how she had managed to lull not only Ser Arthur and Ser Barristan but her own father into a false sense of security was beyond Marq's comprehension. He had managed it by dint of avoiding them when he could and speaking as little as possible when circumstance forced him into their company. Without Praela holding their attention, one of them would have gotten suspicious.

Praela set her own goblet on the table. "My lord, you must call me by my name," she said, beaming at him. "We are to be partners, after all; partners have no need of formality between them."

Marq inclined his head slightly. "As you wish, my . . . Praela," he said, making her giggle._Gods, I had almost forgotten how much fun seduction was_, he thought to himself as they exchanged further coquetries. His wife had died in childbirth years ago, and he had never felt the need to remarry afterwards, or even engage in the harmless philandering common to lords across Westeros. His work had consumed him in the years after his wife died. At last, after a conversation that had begun with flirtation and ended with a serious discussion of what they needed in order to set up as a pirate fleet in the Stepstones, he cleared his throat awkwardly. "I, ah, hope you don't mind," he said stiffly, "but as to the promises we made to each other . . ."

"Of course, of course," Praela answered smoothly, fluttering her hands. "Business is business." A click of her fingers brought her slave forward from where he had been standing with the chest to set in on the table at Praela's left hand. Reaching down the front of her dress with a wink at Marq that almost made him shake his head in disappointment at the obviousness of the stratagem, she produced a heavy iron key. "Unfortunately I was only able to acquire half of them," she said, fitting the key to the heavy padlock holding the chest closed and turning it with a small grunt of effort, "but there were too many for one man to carry and I had no one else I could trust but old Jabas, here, who has been with me since I was a girl." The Summer Islander bowed mutely as Praela drew back the lid of the chest. "The treasure of House Targaryen, my . . . Marq," she said grandly, gesturing at the quintet of dragon eggs that rested within the chest on a velvet cushion. "Take your choice."

Marq's smile became entirely genuine. "Erac," he said calmly.

Without hesitation, his manservant produced a poniard from his sleeve and drove it into Jabas' back twice. The blow to the kidney would have been fatal within moments, but the second blow transfixed the Summer Islander's heart and the scream that Jabas had been opening his mouth to utter turned into a gurgling sigh as he collapsed. Erac, a fastidious and endlessly useful man, took the time to wipe his blade clean on Jabas' loose trousers before knocking on the door in a syncopated rhythm that instantly produced sounds of violence outside.

Praela was aghast. "Are you mad?!" she cried finally, after almost a full minute spent looking from her dead slave to Marq to Erac and back.

"You know, I wasn't sure whether or not you actually _believed_ me," Marq said, leaning back in his chair as a pair of his men-at-arms came through the door cleaning the last of the blood off their swords. "After all, why would a sane and rational man like myself turn pirate, with all the dangers and discomforts that entails, when in one stroke I can win a king's regard, regain my lands and titles, and become one of the richest men in Westeros. If it makes you feel better, something like this would have happened even if I'd actually been planning to turn pirate; a woman cold enough to abandon her newborn daughter for her own advantage is a woman too cold to share my bed. I'm an old man, and I'd like to grow older still." At Praela's sudden, fearful glance back towards the men-at-arms, Marq shook his head. "Fear not, Your Grace, no harm will come to you; you're to be an ornament of King Stannis' court, after all, it wouldn't do for you to be damaged in the meantime. I admit that I know little enough of Stannis' character, but no man likes to unwrap a gift only to find it broken."

Praela, her face contorting with sudden fury, was only foiled in her attempt to snatch up her goblet and throw it at him by the two men-at-arms, who caught her by the arms. "Faithless bastard!" she shrieked, her formerly laughing black eyes flashing hate. "_We had a deal!_"

"I am altering the deal, Your Grace," Marq said calmly. "If you wish to spend the rest of the voyage in comfort, then I suggest you pray that I do not alter it further." He turned his attention to the two men-at-arms. "Put her in the fo'c'sle cabin and place a guard on the door. Any man who touches her loses whatever he touched her with. Make it known."

As the men-at-arms grunted acknowledgement and towed the screeching former queen out of the cabin, Marq refilled his goblet and raised it in a toast to his new dragon eggs. _I do love it when a plan comes together,_ he mused as he drank deep.


	36. Chapter 36: Flash, a Smuggler, and Crows

_The following is an excerpt from _Flash and the Round Table_, the second instalment in the Flash Papers by George Dand._

It's a hell of a thing, a heroic reputation. On the one hand the whoremasters don't gouge you as much, the innkeepers tend to give you discounts in return for getting a glowing testimonial from a genuine hero, and it's hellishly flattering to have minstrels and jongleurs making songs about your exploits (magnifying the facts out of all recognition as they go, but that's part of their trade so there you are). On the other hand, once you have a reputation you have to maintain the blasted thing, especially if you're not the sort of person who's expected to have one. It's all right for the Jaime Lannisters and the Ned Starks and the Robert Baratheons of the world to win laurels as the great men of their day; comes with the name, see? But when you're the son of a newly-landed knight whose only talents are horsemanship and languages (and fornication, but only among ladies of negotiable virtue), you need to _prove_ that you deserve to be named in the same breath as men like the Black Lion and the Iron Wolf.

So when the raven came from King's Landing requesting me to present myself at Court for consultations, there was nothing for it but to spend the rest of the day packing and set out the next morning. For one thing, my family was among Stannis' New Nobles and held the manor by dint of knight-service at His Grace's pleasure; failure to show up would get at least me and possibly the whole family kicked onto the road. For another, it wouldn't do for Ser Harry Flash, one of the heroes of the Greenblood, to be anything but enthusiastic for His Grace's service. Tally ho and once more unto the breach, that was the ticket, and never a hint that I'd much rather be home galloping Maryam out of her wits at every opportunity and drinking myself into an early grave instead of jumping into the political mess of the decade.

It was like this, see. His Grace's mad brother Robert, who had gone and conquered one of the Free Cities by dint of sheer balls and hard fighting, had gotten himself in a spot of bother in that he had found himself at war with the two other Free Cities in the area, both of whom hated his guts. As well they should have, seeing as he was bent on killing them all and freeing their slaves. Mind, I've no truck with slavery myself, but I can see how that sort of attitude would offend. The problem was that Robert was too strong for them to beat on land, so they had taken to fighting him from the sea, where he wasn't strong enough to even try to fight them, much less beat them; not that it stopped his pet Ironborn from trying, but that's Ironborn for you, optimistic lunatics to a man. That said, they could scourge the Sea of Myrth all they wanted, but they couldn't take the Myrish coastland in the face of the Iron Legion, so the war turned into a stalemate.

That got the attention of the Braavosi. They're the most cold-blooded people in the world, the Braavosi, except about two things; slavery and trade. They didn't like the slaver cities any more than Robert did, but at the same time they needed a war with them like they needed a hole in the head; a third of Braavos' exchequer came from trade with the slaver cities, for all their unflattering comments about fleshmongers. So the Braavosi set up a conference at Pentos and invited Robert and the slavers to come and talk out their differences, with us helping the Braavosi keep the peace. Since the invitation to the conference was official, that meant that the only person who would do as His Grace's representative was His Hand, Lord Arryn, and he would need a full retinue, to which I found myself attached, officially anyway, as interpreter, gentleman-at-arms, and general functionary. Unofficially, or so I was told, I was to be a combination bodyguard and errand boy. See, the slaver cities didn't like us much more than they did Robert's new kingdom; Robert was our king's brother after all, and his army was still Westerosi when it wasn't freedman. So if some lunatic on the slaver's side lost his temper and tried to knife Lord Arryn at the conference table, it would be a good thing for His Nibs to have someone at his side who was a good man of his hands and whose presence couldn't be objected to. Similarly, if His Nibs needed someone to run any dangerous errands, it would be good if he had someone who knew the lingo well enough to talk his way out of any complications he couldn't fight his way out of.

Of course all this talk about bodyguarding the Hand of the King and running clandestine errands for him, and the accompanying mental images of fighting off a swarm of Essosi daggermen or riding for my life with slaver freeriders in pursuit, put my heart right down in my boots, but there was nothing for it except to say 'As my lord commands,' and fall into ranks. For one thing trying to beg off would have looked damned fishy. For another, it was still a comfortable billet; Lord Arryn was a pretty dry old stick, but he was also known to feed his men well and it _was_ supposed to be a peace conference after all. The Exchequer's report was that none of the parties involved had enough lucre to pay for more than another month or two of war, and so they should be happy enough to find a way out of it all. So despite my misgivings, I reported aboard ship with the rest of the retinue, stood at attention while His Grace and His Nibs gassed away at each other through the departure ceremonies, and suffered through the voyage to Pentos with the rest of the embassy. Gods, if only I had known what I was getting myself into . . .

XXX

Erik Ironmaker smiled as he reviewed the chart of the Stepstones that lived in his head. Bloodstone was the largest of the Stepstones save for the isle of Tyrosh, and his fleet had stormed and burned the tower that the Tyroshi kept on the island with less than a hundred casualties. It was the latest in a string of victories that taken separately were only minor ones, but as a whole could only constitute a serious defeat to the naval policy of the slavers. It appeared that none of the slavers had thought to watch for a fleet coming from the south and southwest; understandably so, as Dorne had no navy worth the name, and all of the slavers' potential enemies that _did _have fleets were either north or northwest of them. So the Ironborn had swept the breadth of the Stepstones from south to north, taking, sinking, or burning every ship and stronghold flying slaver colors they encountered. Twenty galleys had gone to the bottom and five towers like the one here on Bloodstone had gone up in smoke in order to put Erik and his fleet on the northern edge of the Stepstones with a choice before them.

From Bloodstone there were three ways to reach the Sea of Myrth. The safest way would be to sail due north until the easternmost tip of Cape Wrath was sighted, and then turn due east; the problem was that the prevailing winds out of the Sea of Myrth drove westward towards Cape Wrath and Shipbreaker Bay. And while the fleet could resort to their oars, it would be slow and exhausting going, and there would be at least one battle to fight on the other end of the voyage. The two other ways went right by Tyrosh isle itself, one between Tyrosh and its companion isle of Coralstone, the other between Tyrosh and the mainland. Taking either of those routes would allow the fleet to slip under the westerlies and use the northern edge of the eastward winds that rolled out of Dorne to speed their passage.

The problem, of course, was that it would also take them right under the noses of the Tyroshi, who were bound to have kept at least one squadron of galleys to defend their home island. Ordinarily, Erik wouldn't have cared, but the blow they were planning would not strike half as heavily without a generous helping of surprise. And if the slaver galleys got past the longships and into the knarrs . . . there were almost two hundred women in those ships, along with about a dozen children.

Fortunately, there were sources Erik could consult.

Smuggling was an inescapable fact of life in the Stepstones, so much so that the Three Daughters had long since given up trying to extirpate it. The tower that Erik's fleet had burned down had overlooked the main harbor on Bloodstone not just to deny it to enemy shipping, but also to keep an eye on the smugglers who frequented the village that had sprung up to service passing ships. The 'arrangement', as it had been known, had been that the Tyroshi, or whoever owned the tower during that phase of the on-and-off wars between the Quarrelsome Daughters, did not interfere too much in smuggling unless they got wind of some especially egregious violation, such as smuggling bullion or arms. In return, the smugglers conducted their business in an orderly fashion and didn't complain too much when a shortfall in the treasury of the towers' owners led to a shakedown. Like many things about Essos, it had originated through official boredom, private enterprise, and the never-ending cycle of commerce that dominated the Essosi littoral as thoroughly as the rhythm of the seasons dominated Westeros, and had carried on ever since.

The village had been spared for the most part, although the fleet's bachelors had gone through its quartet of whorehouses like a hurricane; Erik was too old to know most of the smugglers currently in port himself, but his captains knew them well enough, and it was recognized by all concerned that clashes of kings had no bearing on business. Just because there was a war on didn't mean that reasonable men couldn't dicker over a goblet of mead or wine and see if they could make a profit off each other. Half of Erik's captains were even now selling loot taken from Tyroshi and Lyseni ships to smugglers from almost every quarter of the known world in return for either hard coin or provisions to top off their ships' stores.

And in addition to coin and provisions, the smugglers also had information; as often as not their necks depended on having at least a general idea of who was where, with how many ships and men, under what colors and in what guise. A smuggler who didn't pay attention to his surroundings was a smuggler who didn't live very long, in the usual run of things. So Erik had sent some of his officers out with orders to find him the captain who had most recently passed by Tyrosh and tell him (or her, although female captains were as rare as hen's teeth) that Erik Ironmaker would pay handsomely for news of Tyrosh and the waters around it.

A knock on the door of the cabin he staying in onshore announced the arrival of one of those captains, who opened the door to announce "News for you, lord," and usher in a man so slight and ordinary-looking that if Erik had passed him on the street, he wouldn't have even noticed him. Erik stood, extending his hand as the stranger walked towards him with the rolling gait of a seaman.

"Erik Ironmaker," he introduced himself, "admiral of the Ironborn here. I take it you have news of Tyrosh?"

"I do, my lord," the man said in a voice that could only have come from Flea Bottom "Name's Davos. What do you want to know?"

XXX

Lyn Corbray was not a man of faith.

He paid the Faith the lip-service it was due, but the simple truth of the matter was that he cared not what awaited him when he died. As he understood it, the gods determined where you went and what happened to you in advance, so spending time and effort praying about it struck him as mildly foolish. Whether he lived or died would be determined, he believed, by his own prowess, that of his enemies and allies, and the whim of chance.

So while he attended Divine Office in order to meet the expectations of his men (and his father, although he would never admit it), instead of praying further he took a bottle of wine to the edge of the encampment and sipped from it meditatively as he surveyed the dim glow of the Dothraki camp on the far side of the wide, flat valley through which ran a small stream whose name, somewhat unoriginally, translated into Common as Narrow Run. About halfway between Ceralia and Myr city, the valley had originally been home to a trio of cotton plantations that had been burned out in the Company's march on Myr, and Lyn had heard somewhere that the plan was to turn each plantation into a collection of smaller farms centered on a village where the plantation's manse had been.

He snorted. _That_ would have to wait for a time.

A rustle behind him brought around with a hand on the baselard sheathed at his waist; the slavers would love little better than to have someone put a knife in his back. Fortunately it was only his father.

"Son," the old man said softly, extending a hand. "Will you allow me to join you?"

"Of course," Lyn replied, taking his father's hand and offering him the bottle, which he accepted with a nod of thanks. After a long moment of silence as they passed the bottle back and forth, Lyn cleared his throat. "A quiet night so far," he observed, gesturing across the valley. "Seems our guests don't want to try their luck in the dark."

"Few would, even on ground as clear as this," his father said. "Quite a few of them, aren't there?"

"Scouts reported about twenty, twenty-five thousand," Lyn answered. "Call it ten, eleven thousand men of fighting age?"

"Like enough," his father replied. Savages like the Dothraki had one advantage over civilized folk in that they could put a larger proportion of their folk in the battle-line, especially if, like the Dothraki, they were a warlike and predatory tribe. Among the Dothraki, Lyn had heard, every able-bodied man between fourteen and seventy was a warrior; if you tried that in Westeros the starvation that would result as the crops failed would cause devastation. Typically the most you could get away with without crippling your farms was one man in ten between the ages of seventeen and fifty, and most of those would be indifferent soldiers unless they had been part of some town's militia or held a farm by sergeanty. "Do you think there will be a battle?"

Lyn shrugged as he took the bottle back. "If it was the Blackfish who was going to parlay with them, then I doubt it," he said. "The man's too canny to provoke a fight on ground that favors the enemy as much as this does." A gesture with his free hand indicated the clear, gently rolling ground of the valley; almost perfect for cavalry. "But since Stark's going to be the one parlaying . . . " He made a face that was only partially concealed by the fading light. "Stark hates slavers almost as much as he hates Targaryens," he said. "And we're here partly on the strength of his hatred for Targaryens. I wouldn't put it past him to tell the khal, or whoever the khal sends, to go fuck his horse tomorrow, and damn the consequences."

His father nodded, letting a silence fall between them. After a few moments of companionable silence he turned to Lyn. "My son, there are two things I must tell you before tomorrow," he said. "Things concerning the future of our House."

Lyn narrowed his eyes. "What manner of things?" he asked cautiously.

"Firstly that if I fall tomorrow, you must take up Lady Forlorn," his father said. "The sword of our House should go to the knight most worthy of her and I can think of none more so than you. Lucas is a boy still and while Lyonel is a good man, he is not one to uphold the words of our House."

"_Feed the Birds_," Lyn whispered as the import of his father's words sank into him.

"Nor have either them served our House's reputation and the Faith as well as you have done thus far," his father went on. "Which brings me to the second thing I must tell you. But first a question; what think you of Septon Jonothor?"

Lyn shrugged. "I admit that I care little for his theology," he said. "But he seems a good man withal. And a _man_, with it, which is more than can be said for most septons." The memory of the angular, stern face set in a scowl worthy of the Father as the septon in question preached ran through Lyn's mind. "He challenges the men to be worthy," he went on. "And instead of hating him, they love him for it. There are men who would kill and die for him, knights as well as footmen. Jaime Lannister likes him, Ned Stark respects him, and King Robert loves him. Even Greyjoy treats him with courtesy; probably reminds him of one of his god's priests, if what I hear of the drowned priests is true."

His father nodded. "Well and so," he said heavily. "The septon who sailed here with me, Jaspar, would have me keep silent about this matter. But I swore, when I arrived, to give my true faith and allegiance to King Robert, and I have a duty to our House besides. Both on this side of the Sea and the other." Glancing over his shoulder, he leaned forward, his lined face intent. "Septon Jaspar was sent here, not to preach of the Seven, but to investigate Jonothor for heresy," he said in a low voice. "And he claims to have found sufficient evidence to convict him of it. The first ship that can make the voyage to King's Landing will bear his report to the High Septon and the Most Devout, and I doubt not but that their response will be to petition King Robert to arrest Jonothor and transport him to King's Landing for trial."

Lyn shook his head. "Ask Robert to give up wine and women and you would be more likely to succeed," he said. "He has more love for Jonothor than for the High Septon and all the Most Devout put together. He remembers who spurred the freedmen over the walls of Myr, and who put the crown on his head."

"Like as not," his father went on. "So, if Robert refuses, they will petition Stannis, who has no such debt to Jonothor and so will be more mindful of his duties as king. I doubt that he will press the issue to the point of war, but it will still come between them, and from small matters great ones arise, in the fullness of time."

Lyn winced as he contemplated the thought of having to fight a war with the slaver cities without the benevolent neutrality that had hitherto been the policy of the Seven Kingdoms. "I will have to inform Stark of this," he said. "And Robert too, when he returns from Pentos."

"I know," his father replied. "I have already written letters to your brothers, and another to Lord Arryn, advising them of this matter." He gripped Lyn's forearm. "You are a man grown, my son, with a place and a name in this kingdom. But if ever you heeded your father's advice, heed it now; think carefully before involving yourself in this matter of the Faith. I know not whether Jonothor is truly a heretic or not, but if he defies the Most Devout, then the Faith _will_ schism, especially here. The Westerosi here acknowledge the authority of the Great Sept of Baelor, and of the Most Devout and the High Septon, but what of the Essosi who have converted? Will they cleave to authority an ocean away who they have never met, opposed to the man who converted them and brought the light of the Seven to their lives?"

Lyn shook his head. "No," he said shortly. "It wasn't the Most Devout who broke their chains." He shook himself and looked his father in the eye. "Whether it comes to a schism or not," he said slowly, "I will still have a frontier to hold. As far away from King's Landing and Myr city as I am, I should be able to stay out of it. But if it finds me," he shrugged. "I am sworn to Robert," he went on. "My sword and my service are his to command. Whatever the hazards."

His father clapped him on the shoulder, pride in his eyes. "I thought as much," he said, smiling. "You are my son."


	37. Chapter 37: Game of Words and Daggers

**Author's note: This chapter takes place over the space of about two sennights or so, more or less concurrently to the mobilization of the Royal Army of Myr and it's march to Narrow Run. Sections in first-person POV are further excerpts from****_ Flash and the Round Table_****. **

Jon Arryn sat back in his chair, his posture unconsciously erect, and surveyed the other participants of the conference over his steepled fingers. Robert sat three seats away from him on his left, insulated from the other participants by Ser Dafyn Otley, who Jon gathered was one of the chief officers of his household, and Maege Mormont, who had landed two days ago with fifteen hundred Northmen, two –thirds of whom were even now marching south along the coastal road under the command of Cregan Karstark. Across the circular table from him, glaring like a mad tiger, was Garros Sanatis, who claimed to represent the Myrish exiles; Jon had heard that the man had been a merchant-venturer who had been taking on water in Lys when news came of Myr's capture by the Sunset Company. According to Ser Harry Flash, who claimed to have come across the information while drinking with some of the Lyseni delegation, Garros' wife, three daughters, sister, goodbrother, two nephews, and niece had not been heard from since the siege and were presumed dead. On Garros' right was the Tyroshi delegate, Donesso Hestaar, who was stroking his chest-length purple-dyed beard as he glanced around the table under hooded eyelids; evidently he stood high in the Archon's councils. On Garros' left there sat the Lyseni ambassador, a tall man with ringleted hair named Brachio Fylliros who even Jon could not describe as anything but beautiful and who sat in his chair with an indolent grace that stopped just short of boorishness. For all his apparent insouciance, however, Brachio's eyes were still keen as they gazed on Robert; Jon knew little of him beyond that he was deeply involved in the slave and wine trades, but one did not rise high in the Free Cities without at least some ability.

On Jon's right, Tregano Baholis, the host of the conference, stood and cleared his throat, holding a small sheet of parchment before him. "Your Grace," he began in the smooth tones of a professional orator, "My Lord, Your Honors, gentlemen, in the name of His Excellency the Sealord and the Council of Thirty, I bid you welcome to this conference. Our purpose here is the restoration of peace through the world, in order that the nations represented here may enjoy the blessings of security, amity, and commerce beloved of men and of the gods, and to allow for justice to be done for any unlawful misdeeds we find to have been done . . . "

"As to that," spat Garros suddenly, leaning forward, "I would like to know where my wife and daughters are. How about it, Baratheon?"

"How should I know?" Robert asked with a theatrical shrug. "Do I look like a whoremaster to you?"

Jon sighed as Garros shot to his feet, spewing fury and ignoring Donesso's grab at his arm while Tregano hammered his fist on the table and shouted for order. _This,_ he thought wearily,_is going to take a lot of work_.

XXX

I once got into a terrible argument with this one septon (the conversation had been about hunting, of all bloody things) about whether fate or chance played a greater role in human affairs. Of course to religious types everything has to be the will of the gods; if it wasn't they wouldn't be able to explain things. I, on the other hand, having been embroiled in something like two-thirds of the wars, diplomatic crises, and general alarums of the past half-century or so (through no fault or desire of my own, let the record show), know just how much of a role that blind luck can play, especially in affairs that can impact the course of history. To name only one example, if I hadn't happened to be the only person in the Westerosi embassy who could convincingly pass himself off as a Essosi sellsword, and if I had preferred Westerosi beer to Essosi wine, I wouldn't have been in the Purple Octopus on the night after the first day of the conference and I wouldn't have heard the words "kill the Andal" from the table behind me.

Fortunately I managed to pass off my spraying half of my goblet across the table as a spasm caused by the wine going down the wrong tube, mostly by coughing a lot and gesturing in vague reassurance at the serving-wench who started across the floor to see if I needed to be helped out the door so I didn't die on the premises. Once I had regained control of myself and, more importantly, determined the Andal in question wasn't me, I bent my ear as hard as I could to see if I could find out which Andal they were talking about. After all, that sort of thing was why I was down in the Purple Octopus drinking inferior wine and trying not to shudder at the collection of trulls on offer instead of sitting in front of a decent fire in the wing of the Viceregal Palace that had been given over to our embassy, sipping a decent red and seducing one of the maids. Alas, the Purple Octopus was not the quietest of establishments and I could only pick fragments out of the general babble, although those fragments were chilling enough. I mean, you try listening to someone mutter words like "death", "revenge", and "blood for blood", even in a sultry Myrish accent, and see how it makes you feel.

Now if I was a cutthroat out of a romance, as daring as a knight and as cunning as a fox, I'd have waited until whoever it was who was speaking behind me left, followed them until they split up each to their own lairs, and knocked one of them over the head so that I could drag them back to the Palace to see how well he could hold his tongue with a torch held under his feet. Unfortunately, the villains weren't so obliging; they _did_ split up, but into two groups of three and no one in the group I followed split off to take a piss or to taste any more of Myr's delights. That said, they were at least kind enough to end up someplace recognizable. The house they went in at had the Tyroshi banner hanging from a cross-pole over the door.

I told Lord Arryn about it of course, but he didn't think it too important. "Of course they want to kill Andals," was his verdict. "If they didn't want to kill Andals we wouldn't be here. Unless you can find out _which_ Andal specifically they want to kill, and when and where and how they want to kill him, I'm afraid I can do nothing. Now will you please go and find those things out and cease wasting my time meanwhile?" Damned ingratitude, you ask me, but what can you do? That's high lordships for you.

XXX

Jon Arryn put down his glass, concealing irritation with the ease of long practice. "I beg your pardon?" he asked, deliberately keeping his tone light. "What do you mean you cannot recognize the Kingdom of Myr as a sovereign nation?"

Donesso shrugged. "I mean exactly that," he replied evenly. "The simple fact is that they are not a nation, but a robber band that has managed to take over a city by dint of treachery. The true nation of Myr is that which is represented by our well-beloved friend Garros Sanatis and his lieutenants."

"Who do not hold any Myrish territory beyond a few rocks in the Stepstones and don't have the ability to take it back," Jon retorted. "If anyone is the robber band in this equation it is they. Or do you deny that they have conducted what amount to pirate raids on the lands of my king?"

Donesso gestured with his free hand as if to brush away an insect. "An attack of rashness on their part which we shall pledge to restrain in future," he said smoothly. "But Robert and his followers have no legitimate claim to the possession of Myr."

Ser Harry Flash, who had been pouring himself a drink at the sideboard, raised his eyebrows. "It's got their troops all over it, that makes it theirs," he said sardonically. "Right of conquest and all that."

Donesso rolled his gaze over to fix Harry with an even stare. "Are we to acknowledge the right of bandits to keep their spoils, then?" he asked. "An outlaw band is no less criminal for being large and well-disciplined."

Jon shrugged. "The Sunset Company's war against Myr was conducted properly enough, as we reckon such matters," he said. "A challenge was issued with reasonable terms, the Company marched openly under true colors, it faced the Myrish army in open battle and defeated it honestly. When Myr itself was besieged they offered honorable terms of surrender, and when those terms were refused the city was stormed and sacked." He shrugged again. "Everything was conducted according to the rules of war. If the Myrish could not defeat them, then that is their misfortune."

Donesso frowned. "Perhaps," he allowed. "But the matter is not as simple as deciding whether or not the rules were followed. The Archon has sworn to give the Myrish all aid within his power to retake their city. He cannot be seen to go back on his word. And in any case," he continued, arching his eyebrow, "their raid into our borderlands was proceeded by neither challenge nor terms, reasonable or otherwise. They had suffered no provocation, had no reason to believe that war with us was imminent or even likely. Ask our border towns that lie in ashes, and the children who lie dead in their streets, if the Sunset Company abided by your rules of war, or if they acted as any bandit gang would have done."

Jon steepled his fingers. "For the latter question," he began, "I say that when one perceives that a future enemy has let his guard down, prudence demands that you strike a blow while you may. Do you deny that, even if the Sunset Company had not raided your borders, you would have allowed them to enjoy the fruits of their conquest unmolested? As for the question of the exiles, I would submit," he went on, "that the Archon has kept his word admirably; if the Kingdom of Myr is so beset on the seas, it is due largely to the Tyroshi navy." Donesso accepted the compliment with a small bow from his chair. "And yet despite that aid," Jon continued, "the Myrish have not been able to capture even a significant town, much less their city itself. Does the Archon's charity extend so far as to provide indefinite aid to powerless beggars?"

Donesso pursed his lips. "Your first question we will never know the answer to, given the circumstances. As to the second question, the pursuit of honor and profit has no limit," he said, as if quoting a proverb. "We cannot be seen to withdraw from an honorable struggle empty-handed."

"You might have to anyway," Harry replied as he sat down on the third chair in Jon's private solar, "if the Braavosi decide to involve themselves. How well did it end for Tyrosh the last time their fleets tried conclusions with the Titan?"

"Ser Harry, that will do," Jon said in the same tone he had used on Robert whenever he had said something impertinent. "This gentleman is our guest."

Harry flushed appropriately and ducked his head. "Humbly crave your pardon," he mumbled.

Donesso gracefully gestured acceptance of the apology. "The Titan's fleets are formidable, it is true," he averred. "But even them we would defy for the sake of honor. It takes a year and more to build a fleet, but it takes a hundred years to build a reputation."

Jon scratched his freshly-shaven jaw; he preferred to cultivate a short goatee and moustache rather than a full beard. "It may be," he said slowly, "that we can convince Robert to leave by any claims upon the territory Myr held in the Stepstones when he invaded, as well as any claims Myr may have held upon Tyroshi or Lyseni territory in the Disputed Lands. That would provide the exiles with a homeland, if a truncated one, and remove at least one source of potential friction."

Donesso frowned. "That might work," he said after a long moment of consideration. "But on its own I do not think it would suffice. What might suffice is if Robert was convinced to drop this idea of our paying him, what is the term, weregild? We entered this war not just to assist friends and allies, but to avenge the insult offered our ambassador when he was summarily ejected from Myr and his property confiscated." He spread his hands. "As I understand, the payment of weregild constitutes an admission of guilt; we are not guilty of causing this war."

Harry laughed shortly. "A fine time you'll have convincing Robert of that, Your Honor," he said, sipping at his glass.

"Leave that to me," Jon said, leaning back in his chair. "Robert may not accept no weregild at all, but he may be mollified with a nominal sum, given the circumstances."

XXX

In my professional opinion, the best place to hold a confidential meeting is in a middle-class tavern, especially if it also serves as a brothel.

In your low-class winesinks and cathouses, see, the average customer focuses on either getting as drunk as possible as fast as possible, or picking out the first harlot that comes to hand who isn't too unsightly and getting straight down to business. Someone who lingers over his drink, or who only seems interested in observing the whores on offer instead of actually choosing one, stands out; two people holding a conversation of more than a few words might as well hold up a sign saying "We are the Suspicious People you are looking for". Also such places are so raucous that you often can't hear yourself think, much less hear someone across the table who is trying to be discreet.

In a high-class tavern or bordello you run into the opposite problem in that the common rooms are so sedate that you can eavesdrop on even a quiet conversation at ten paces. And even if you have the lucre to spring for a private room you aren't safe; a lot of those private rooms have spyholes where someone can look in to watch you and your partner of choice perform the horizontal estampie with you unawares. Not exactly my style, but I've gotten so much professional use out of it over the years that I can't bring myself to condemn it.

But a middle-class tavern-brothel, one boisterous enough to conceal a casual conversation but sophisticated enough that you're almost expected to linger over your drink and your choice of pleasures, is perfect. So when the embassy received a message from someone who signed himself 'a friend' and insisting that they had 'critical information' that they could only impart to 'a discreet and trustworthy officer' (which in this case meant me, much to my dismay), my return message directed them to meet me at The Maiden's Head, a tavern-brothel in the tradesman's quarter that catered to the wealthier sort of journeyman.

I had gotten halfway through a tankard of quite decent ale, and decided that if whoever-it-was didn't show up in the next hour I was going to pick out one of the establishment's jezebels and at least get some enjoyment out of the evening, when a little man with a face like a sad lapdog slid into the chair across from me and introduced himself as Beleo, a 'friend', to use his words, of Lord Merryweather. Apparently, he had been trying to report to the old man for days now but his manse was too heavily watched. He had just gotten to the part of his story where he was babbling out how he had gotten a message to the embassy through a fourth party and handed me an envelope which he claimed held important information when I felt eyes on me.

I daresay I'm more sensitive to it than most, but if you stare at someone long enough and hard enough, they _will_ notice it. Don't ask me how or why because I don't know, but it's saved my life at least a dozen times over the years. Fortunately, I was able to keep the sudden twist in my guts off my face, Beleo seemed nervous enough already, as I scanned the room. Eventually, I found them.

"Don't look," I said, forcing myself to be calm, "but there are a few gentlemen at the bar who don't seem to be very interested in their drinks." Naturally, just as I said so, they got up from their seats and started walking over to us.

"Who are they?" Beleo asked, his eyes flitting from side to side anxiously.

I shrugged; the men in question had the sort of face common from Braavos to Volantis. "Damned if I know," I said. "Tyroshi, Lyseni, maybe Volantene . . . " By this point they had reached our table.

"Come quietly," one said in a distinctively sultry accent.

"Make that Myrish exile," I said, trying to conceal my sinking heart behind a light tone. Ser Harry Flash's Rules of Covertcy have never been published, nor are they likely to be published, but one of the first ten of those Rules is this: Never get involved with people who have nothing to lose if they don't play by the rules.

"And bring the letter with you," the one who had first spoken continued as if I hadn't said anything.

I didn't much care for his tone, which doubtless is what made me try to brazen it out; I'm not usually that reckless. Besides, I was still a young man in those days. "Letter?" I demanded in my iciest tone. "What letter?"

"The letter this one just gave you," said another of the Myrmen, this one slighter than his colleague but no less dangerous-looking.

Beleo, to give him credit, could shift from nervousness to temerity in a heartbeat. "Me?" he asked in a voice that didn't even quaver. "Do I look like a messenger boy?"

"We will not ask again," said the third Myrman, who even in workman's clothes held himself in a way that all but shouted _nobleman_. "Come quietly, or . . ."

"Or what?" Beleo asked boldly, drawing a peasant's knife and thumping the hilt down on the table.

The first Myrman, who had positioned himself between us, drew back his cloak to reveal a shortsword. "Or we kill you and take what you have anyway," he said amiably. "This way, you live longer. Outside, please."

Well, there was nothing to do at that point but stand up and walk towards the door, which we both did. Fortunately, Lady Flash didn't raise any slow thinkers, so halfway to the door I contrived to stumble against Beleo and roughly shove him halfway across the table he was passing with a shout of "Watch where you're going, damn your eyes! Think a man of the Old Blood of Volantis can be jostled like a peasant, do you?"

While Beleo protested feebly from where he lay on the table, one of its occupants stood up, and up, and up. "You owe us a round and two bottles of the house vintage," he said with a Northern burr so thick I could have cut it with a knife. "Along with a dozen gold dragons or so for taking the trouble to teach you manners."

In reply to this I put on my best sneer, looked him up and down with as much insolence as I could muster on short notice, and replied, in my best impression of a Volantene nobleman's accent, "Going to make me, tree-fucker?"

There were a score of Northmen at that table, all younger sons of minor aristocracy with a few glasses of strong wine in them. Every one of them stood up at that, stripping off their doublets and putting hands to dirk hilts. The one who had first stood up, a man about my age with arms as thick as most men's legs, grabbed me by the front of my doublet and managed to snarl, "Think you're funny, do you . . ." before I keyed his arm into a shoulder lock and threw him into the Myrmen.

That, as they say, did it. In seconds the Maiden's Head was a maelstrom of combat, with the blades coming out and the furniture beginning to fly, and I was crawling on hands and knees for the door. How I got out onto the street with nothing more than bruises, I'll never know, but I did and I wasted no time at all in dashing to the stable attached to the tavern, dragging my horse out without taking the time to tack up, and riding back to the Palace and the safety of the embassy at best speed.

What happened to Beleo I never found out, but I still had his letter, and the contents, once I got around to opening and reading it, were almost worth the bruises.

XXX

"This is a joke, right?" Robert asked as Tregano Baholis finished reading out the preliminary terms of the treaty. "Jon, you can't honestly expect me to accept these terms."

Jon Arryn shrugged. "These are the terms that all the other parties are willing to accept," he replied. "You're the only one who hasn't approved them."

"Do you truly think that I give a damn what a pack of slavers are willing or not willing to accept?" Robert spat. "Donesso and Garros and Brachio can all line up and kiss my arse for all the good it may do them."

Tregano set down the paper on which he had scribbled down the terms of the treaty and spread his hands. "Your grace, as unpalatable as these terms may be, they are the terms on which we can make peace," he said simply. "As early as tomorrow afternoon, if you accept them today. And you must admit, they are not entirely unfavorable to you and your realm."

Robert clenched his jaw on a sour remark; the truth was the terms _were_ decent enough. The recognition of the Kingdom of Myr as a sovereign nation, the abolition of slavery and the slave trade outside of Tyroshi and Lyseni territory, and peace on the terms of status quo ante bellum were all more than acceptable. The provision that slaves of other nations visiting Myr on a temporary basis would remain slaves was difficult to swallow, but understandable given Tyrosh and Lys's reliance on slaves to row their galleys. It was the other terms that truly stuck in Robert's craw.

_The Kingdom of Myr renounces all claims on territory previously claimed but not actually occupied in the Disputed Lands and it's territories in the Stepstones. _

_The Kingdom of Myr pledges to not interfere in the internal affairs of the other signatories to the treaty, nor to encourage, condone, support, or render aid and comfort to any revolt, rebellion, or insurrection within the territory of the aforesaid signatories._

_No signatory to this treaty shall interdict, harass, or blockade the commerce of any other signatory, upon pain of reprisal actions by the other signatories._

_Tyrosh and Lys shall each pay reparations to the Kingdom of Myr in the amount of one gold dragon, or an equivalent amount in their currency, in compensation for the damage done to the property of the Crown of Myr during the war._

The first three of those terms were bad enough; at a stroke they would forbid the Kingdom of Myr from making any attempt to forcibly abolish slavery in Tyrosh and Lys. But the fourth term was what truly made Robert see red. For one thing, the amount was insultingly small, as if he were some beggar to be thrown a coin. For another, there was no mention in the treaty whatsoever of the hundreds of his people who had been murdered by the slavers, or of the reparations that were due to them.

"How can you expect me," Robert said after explaining this to Jon, "to go back to Myr and tell my people that I agreed with the notion that their lives were not even worth mentioning?! You taught me better than that, Jon!"

Jon narrowed his eyes. "If you had remembered my lessons a year and a half ago," he said coldly, "we would not be here and you would not have to accept these terms. We are here," he continued, his voice rising as he leaned forwards over the table, "because you chose to act like a child told it could not have a toy instead of a king. Every drop of blood spilled is on your head, boy!"

Tregano slapped his hand down on the table with a sharp crack. "Enough, both of you!" he snapped. "You are a king and the first officer of a king. Comport yourselves accordingly, if you please." As Robert and Jon subsided, both glaring daggers at each other, Tregano sat back in his chair. "Your Grace," he said in a more moderate tone, "I am informed by the Sealord that he personally considers these terms to be objectionable. However, for the sake of the commerce that his people depend upon for their livelihood, he is willing to accept them and lend of the Titan's strength to see that they are observed. The Council of Thirty has already voted to approve an arrangement wherein thirty of our galleys, based out of Dragonstone and Estermont, will patrol the southern Narrow Sea and the Stepstones to enforce the terms of the treaty in conjunction with a squadron of King Stannis' fleet. You may be assured that the captains will be scrupulous in carrying out their duties. If you wish to add a squadron of your own to this fleet, they will be more than welcome so long as they abide by the terms of the treaty."

Robert scowled. "What's in this for you, anyway?" he asked. "I don't recall seeing anything in the treaty that redounded to Braavos' benefit."

"Two things," Tregano said. "Firstly, it redounds greatly to the honor of Braavos that her good offices were instrumental in stopping a war and restoring peace and commerce. Secondly," his face split in a grimly triumphant smile, "this treaty constitutes the greatest defeat ever handed to the forces of slavery. In one stroke, slavery and the slave trade will be eliminated from almost the entirety of the Narrow Sea, save for the Stepstones. We have fought against slavery for more than a thousand years, Your Grace, and in all those centuries we have suffered defeats as often as we have celebrated victories. A victory as great as this will be celebrated loud and long by every man, woman, and child who swears allegiance to the Titan."

Robert nodded. "There's a lesson in that, I suppose," he said sourly. "Take a hollow victory when it offers itself, instead of holding out for a perfect victory and going down to defeat, or something like." Pushing away from the table and standing to his feet, he stalked over to the window and glowered down at the city below. "Suppose I accepted these terms," he said slowly. "What else could I expect to get, from either of you?"

Tregano concealed a smile. "I'm sure the Iron Bank would be more than willing to open a branch in Myr city," he said. "Master Nestoris would be able to tell you more than me, but I can tell you that the best help to commerce known to man is readily accessible credit. And no one in the world, Your Grace, can offer more credit on better terms than the Iron Bank."

Jon shrugged. "The treaty will forbid you from recruiting in the Seven Kingdoms," he said, "but it doesn't prevent people from sailing from Westeros to Myr. Any man who volunteers to join your army would have to give up their inheritance rights in the Seven Kingdoms, but they would still be free to sail if they can afford the price of passage. In addition to which," he continued, his voice turning speculative, "the treaty does not forbid the Iron Throne from shipping men to Myr as we would ship them to the Wall. Any man sentenced to exile, as Ser Jaime was, could certainly be put on the next ship to Myr."

Robert glowered down at the city for a while longer, and then turned back to the two other men. "Very well," he rumbled. "I will sign the damned thing. But mark me, my lords; I dislike being forced to accept the unacceptable. I wish it to be entered into the record that I am only accepting these terms because I have no other choice if I wish to preserve my people and my kingdom. And when this treaty's odiousness outweighs its usefulness, _my hammer will not sleep._"

XXX

I didn't get to see Robert and his household march down to the ship that would carry them back to Pentos, as it happens. Officially, I was excused from duty that day on account of I had been on duty for the two sennights prior and I was under orders to take the day off. Unofficially, it was so I could set up in a top-floor room in a certain tavern with a bottle of surprisingly decent Arbor red and wait for someone to show up; which they did, about an hour after I had taken a seat in the far corner of the same wall that held the door.

He wasn't very extraordinary in appearance; one of your small, neat men with the sort of face that will blend into half the crowds in the world. If it weren't for the heavy-looking sack he was carrying over his shoulder and the feline way in which he moved, I'd never have pegged him for an assassin.

"Good morning," I said brightly as he closed the door. "Care for a drink?"

To his credit, he hardly even flinched; just a momentary start, a slight stiffening of the shoulders and the neck, and then he was looking at me with some of the coldest eyes I have ever seen. And keep in mind, I've been in more than my share of staring contests. The only man I ever met who could unequivocally beat this bird in a staring match was Tywin Lannister.

"Thank you, no," he said finally, having not moved from where he stood with one hand on the doorknob. I could tell already that the only reason he hadn't tried to kill me yet was that he wasn't quite sure of what exactly he had walked into. After all, he had thought that he would have a nice private room to commit a murder from, and here was a big Westerosi with an educated accent that belied his tradesman's clothes, apparently without a care in the world or a weapon in his hands, offering him a drink. "I was unaware this room was already occupied."

I gave a self-deprecating smile. "Yes. I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell the innkeep about me, actually. See, I didn't tell him I was taking a private room." In actuality I'd slipped him a few stags in order to keep quiet about my presence, but I didn't want this cove or one of his friends thinking he'd betrayed them.

"Lovely view this room has, eh?" I went on, indicating the window. "Day as clear as today, you can see right down to where the High Street meets the docks. Not a chimney or a dovecote in the way and barely a hundred yards distance."

"Indeed," says the small man with the cold eyes. "I don't suppose you'll tell me who gave you the notion to come here to this room in this tavern?"

I shrugged. "Afraid I can't, old boy. See, I don't know where the information that brought me here came from. Just an anonymous letter dropped by the embassy."

The other man pursed his lips and nodded. He still hadn't moved away from the door and he was still standing in the sort of balanced, absolutely still posture you only see in acrobats, dancers, and fighting men, and even then only in the good ones. There was a distant swell of noise from outside, which I made of show of listening to by placing my left hand, which had been resting on the table, to my ear; my right hand still held my wineglass. "That'll be King Robert passing through, I'll wager," I said. "Give it another minute or three and he'll be aboard ship. And once he's aboard and everything's settled . . ."

"Down to Myr he goes," the man said. "Home again, home again, for him." His eyes, if anything, grew even colder, and I could tell that they weren't looking at me anymore. "My father was a glassblower in Myr, a free glassblower," he said, his sultry accent thickening a little. "He wanted me to go into the trade, like my older brother, but I didn't have the lungs for it. Fortunately, I did have a head for numbers; one good enough that the Master my father worked for got me a job as a clerk in a trading house. Eventually, I got so good at that job that the head of the house sent me to Tyrosh, where one of his partners needed a replacement clerk who wasn't tied to any of the houses there. My ship sailed the day before the Sunset Company came over the border." His voice was as even and measured as if he were discussing the weather, but I could still hear the pain and hatred underneath it. "My older brother was killed at Tara," he went on. "My father, my uncles, and my goodbrother were killed during the siege or the assault. My mother, my aunt, my goodsister and my two sisters were raped during the sack; my goodsister died in the process and my mother killed herself afterwards. My sisters managed to get on a ship and join me in Tyrosh, but they aren't right; Vellona still cringes at the sight of me, sometimes, her own brother, and Meshora can't sleep unless the door to her room is locked, barred, and wedged shut. I don't know where my aunt is. The shop where my father and older brother worked, and where four generations of my family have worked, was burned half to the ground and is now a barracks for the City Watch, or so I am told." His eyes focused back on me. "Will I ever get to go home, ser whoever-you-are?"

All I could do was shrug. "Don't ask me, old boy. I'm just a knight in the service of King Stannis, gods bless him. When he, or one of his officers, says unto me, 'go', I go, and when they say unto me, 'do this', I do it. What they choose to make out of where I go and what I do for them is their problem and none of mine, so long as they do right by me and my family." I indicated the bottle sitting on the small table in front of me. "Sure you don't want a drink? It's really quite good, for this sort of establishment."

He shook his head. "Thank you, but no." He flicked a glance at the window, through which the noise of the crowds was coming only faintly. "It would appear that there is no purpose to my remaining here, anyways." Looking back to me, he raised an eyebrow. "Will you allow me to leave, or will I have to cut my way out?"

He was, as I have said, not a particularly big fellow; perhaps five feet high and maybe a hundred and twenty pounds soaking wet and wearing heavy clothing. That said I wouldn't have wanted to try conclusions with him under the conditions we were in at the time. I had left my sword and my armor at the embassy, and all my warlike equipment in that room consisted of a leather doublet and a baselard, the better to seem like a commoner, if a well-off commoner. On the other hand, it wouldn't have done to let him know that I was reluctant to pick a fight. Undersized or not, this fellow struck me as the sort who would fasten on any weakness and not let go until you stopped breathing. "I'm under orders not to kill you," I said as a result. "Be inconvenient for our hosts if one of their guests goes around knifing people. Besides, we've just ended a war; be bad form to start another one before the ink's dry on the peace treaty."

He nodded. "I imagine so. You said you serve King Stannis?"

"I have that honor."

"Then our paths will probably cross again someday," he said. "May I ask your name?"

Now, it's a bad idea to let the other side know who you are, as a general rule, but I was young at the time and I didn't see how it cost me to give the fellow my name. After all, I had won this round. So I stood up slowly, making sure to keep my hands clear of my baselard, clicked my heels, and bowed shortly, maintaining eye contact as I did so. "Ser Harry Flash, at your service."

"Stallen Naerolis of Myr, at yours," he replied. "I hope you won't mind if I don't wish you good luck? Nothing personal, you understand; strictly a matter of business."

"Not a whit," I answered him. "Doesn't sound like you have any good luck to wish on someone anyway." If I hadn't known better, I'd have sworn his eyes had flashed red in that instant from concentrated hate. But then, I'd been running on about half my normal amount of sleep per night, so maybe it was just me. "The sele of the day to you."

"And you," he said, courteously enough, as he shouldered his heavy sack again and left the room, but not my life. If I had known how many sleepless nights and grey hairs that little man would give me over the years, I'd have taken my chances right there in that room, if only for the sake of my peace of mind. But then, I'm a knight, not a fortune-teller, so how was I to know?


	38. Chapter 38: The Gift of Death

Eddard narrowed his eyes at the sight of the quintet of horsemen riding out from the Dothraki host under a flag of truce, with another man jogging along behind them. Turning to Akhollo, he jerked his head at the delegation. "Do you think they mean it?" he asked. "The flag of truce?"

Akhollo nodded. "Dothraki respect truce-flags as much as Andals do, Lord Stark," he said gravely. "On the plains it is death to attack a messenger. The one on foot will probably be a slave who speaks Valyrian or Common Tongue; they will not expect walkers to speak Dothraki."

Eddard nodded. "Ser Brynden," he called over to where the Blackfish sat his horse. "You have command in my absence. Be ready to intervene if things go wrong." As the Blackfish waved acknowledgment Eddard turned to the captain of his household, one of the ten survivors of the twenty Cerwyn men who had formed his original guards. "Daimh, I'll need you, Aralt, Niall, Dael, and Gram, and a flag of truce. The rest of the household to remain here until we return, but to stand ready to ride to our aid." Daimh, a stolid, blocky man whose already-wide shoulders looked positively deformed when he was in armor, clanked his gauntleted fist off his breastplate in salute and turned to snap orders at the other household men.

Twenty minutes later, Eddard and his men were reining in before the Dothraki delegation, which had waited for them in the middle of the shallow stream that gave the broad, gently sloping valley its name. One of the Dothraki, a strongly-built man who seemed no less hale for the streaks of gray in his long, intricately braided and bell-festooned hair and beard, raised an empty hand in a ceremonious gesture that Eddard copied after a short hesitation, and then lowered his hand to gesture sharply with a snap of his fingers. The man on foot strode forward and bowed. "I am Harar, lord," he said humbly in Low Valyrian. "With your leave I will translate your words for Khal Zirqo, and his words for you."

Eddard cocked his head. "Are you from Pentos?" he asked; his Low Valyrian was more conversational than truly fluent, but he had picked up the accent.

Harar nodded. "Born and raised, my lord, until I was sold to the khal ten years ago by . . ." The Dothraki who had gestured Harar forward, and who Eddard took to be Khal Zirqo, quite calmly drew a quirt and, leaning over, struck Harar on the back with it, accompanying the blow with a torrent of incendiary-sounding language. Harar, for his part, took both blow and scolding with nothing more than a bow to the khal and another to Eddard. "The khal bids me translate only, my lord," he said, "and says that if I speak otherwise he shall flog me further when the day's business is over."

Eddard tightened his hands on the reins of his courser until his gauntlets creaked. "In that case," he said, restraining his fury with an effort of will, "I ask the khal what his business is in these lands, for none ride armed in Myr unless they swear fealty to the king."

As Harar translated Eddard's words into the rough gutturals of Dothraki, the khal laughed, as did the four other men who rode with him and who Eddard took to be his household men, or bloodriders as Akhollo had told him they were called. "Khal Zirqo says that the Dothraki ride where they please, as they please," Harar said as the khal spoke. "He says also that he spits on this king of whom you speak, who thinks that he can command free men as if they were slaves."

"Tell him," Eddard replied, "that he has not answered my question. What is his business in these lands?"

"Khal Zirqo says that he has heard that there is a new king in Myr," Harar answered. "He says that he wishes to meet this king, and ask him for such gifts as the magisters gave."

Eddard nodded. "And what," he asked, "will the khal give in return if we give him these gifts he asks for?"

At Harar's translation, Zirqo smiled as a tiger might smile. "Khal Zirqo says," Harar said as Zirqo spoke slowly and with evident relish, "that if he receives worthy gifts, then he will give your king the gift of his friendship. He says further that if the gifts he receives are unworthy, then he will do to you what he did to the Pentoshi, and burn your villages and take your people as slaves, to teach you what gifts are worthy of a khal."

A fist gripped Eddard's heart. "He took slaves in Pentos?" he asked, his voice suddenly cold.

"Khal Zirqo says that the Braavosi who now rule in Pentos refused to give him slaves," Harar replied. "So he took the number of slaves that he would have been given by the old rulers of Pentos. He says that it is the way of the world, that the strong do as they please, and that the Dothraki are strong. He says further that he will do the same here, unless your gifts are worthy; your men, he says, are weak, and cannot stand against his riders. You would have done as well to leave them in their homes and come alone, he says, they would have been as much use to you." One of the bloodriders added a comment which provoked chuckles from his fellows and the khal, who gestured at Harar. "Chokho, who is bloodrider to the khal, says that his khal misspoke," Harar said. "In bringing your men here, he has saved the khal the bother of rooting them out of their holes like a woman hunting marmots."

Eddard held out a hand to still the growing murmur of anger from his household men, who had been listening to the exchange. "Tell the khal," he said softly, lowering his hand and shifting his grip on the reins of his horse, "that I will give him the same gifts that we gave the magisters of Myr, if he does not apologize for the insults he has given."

There was a short silence as Harar translated Eddard's words, and then Zirqo threw his head back and roared laughter, as did his bloodriders. Finally, wiping tears from his eyes, Zirqo gasped out a sentence to Harar, who turned back to Eddard and bowed. "Khal Zirqo says that he does not know what you mean," he said, "but you will have to give him greater gifts than you gave mere magisters, if you are to keep his friendship."

"He misunderstands," Eddard said, spurring his horse forward so that he closed with Zirqo. "We gave the magisters the gift of death." And with that, he swept his longsword out of the scabbard and swung it in a flat arc that drove the last two inches of the blade across Zirqo's throat.

There was a long moment of stillness, broken only by Zirqo clutching at his throat and gobbling horribly as blood flowed from the wound and sprayed from his mouth, and as he fell from his horse the spell was broken. The bloodrider who had spoken, Chokho, roared incoherently and drew his arakh, followed in the next heartbeat by the other three bloodriders. Eddard had enough time to close his visor before they were on him, with his household men adding their spears and swords to the fray moments later.

XXX

Five hundred yards away with the rest of the khalasar, Sajo gaped as Khal Zirqo fell from his saddle. No one, _no one_, broke the protection of a truce flag. It was literally unthinkable. And yet the Myrman had killed the khal like a dog, and the parley was turning into a battle before his eyes.

Beside him, his cousin Qhodovvo was gagging in outrage. "Blasphemers!" he finally roared, his voice a trumpet of fury breaking the shocked silence that had fallen over the khalasar. "Desecrators! Hell shall be thy portion for this!"

A deep-throated baying rose from the host, those few men who hadn't been mounted tightening girths and leaping into the saddle. In the center of the host Pobo walked his horse forward and drew his arakh. "Forward!" he roared. "Avenge the khal! Kill, brothers, kill! Kill them all!"

As one man eleven thousand riders went from a standing start to a charge in five strides, and the ululating howl of the bloodscream split the heavens.

XXX

Brynden Tully watched, horror-struck, as the parley turned into a brawl and the Dothraki charged. But only for a moment; even the shock of witnessing a war crime could not override his veteran's instincts. So after only a single shouted obscenity, he turned to one of the gallopers waiting near to hand. "My compliments to Ser Lyn Corbray," he said calmly, "and he is to charge the enemy immediately." As the galloper spurred his horse away, he turned to his trumpeter. "Sound prepare to receive cavalry," he ordered. As the trumpeter raised his instrument and sent the brassy notes echoing away, Brynden drew his sword and held it in a loose grip down by his right leg. _Damn it, Ned,_ he thought savagely. _Why did you have to go and do that?_

XXX

Contrary to popular belief, a charge of heavy cavalry does not go straight from a standing start to a gallop.

For one thing, a horse as large as a courser or a destrier simply cannot accelerate that fast, especially not when it's weighed down by its tack and barding, its rider, and his armor and weapons, all of which can easily come to three hundred pounds or more. Coursers and destriers are plenty fast in a straight line, but it takes them a while to get up to speed and once they do they can't turn very quickly. For another, even a lightly-encumbered horse can only gallop for about two miles before fatigue sets in; a barded horse carrying an armored knight, even one as strong as a destrier, can only maintain a gallop for about a mile.

Moreover, heavy cavalry, and especially well-drilled heavy cavalry, almost never gallop. At the gallop it is almost impossible to maintain cohesion and heavy cavalry live and die by cohesion. A charge that loses cohesion will strike the enemy like a spray of water droplets; individually hard but diffuse, and easily absorbed by the enemy. On the other hand, a charge that maintains its cohesion so that it strikes the enemy as a solid wall of armored men and horses tipped by an unbroken line of lance-heads will strike the enemy like the fist of an angry god.

So when Ser Lyn Corbray's trumpeter sounded the advance, the three hundred knights and men-at-arms on the field that day started at the walk. A dozen strides later, they accelerated to the trot, maintaining their alignment with the ease of long practice. Three hundred armored men on heavy horses made the earth shake as they rode, even at a pace as slow as the trot; when, just after splashing across Narrow Run stream, two hundred yards from the oncoming Dothraki, they accelerated to the canter, the thunder of hooves was loud enough to drown out speech.

Each man, now, was effectively a guided missile as the lances swept down to form a leading edge of steel before the wave of armored horses. Taken together, a knight, his horse, and their gear came out to an average of six hundred and eighty kilograms of mass, moving at more than six and a half meters per second. That combination of mass and acceleration meant that, upon impact, each knight would deliver almost four and a half thousand newtons of force through a lance-head that ended in a point as narrow and sharp as a bodkin. Even against armored men, that much force could kill.

The Dothraki reckoned a man's courage by the amount of armor he wore; the more armor he wore, the less his courage. A true man relied on his skill and his speed to avoid injury. In the quicksilver slash-and-fade warfare of the plains, that sort of thinking had merit; the more armor a man wore, the faster he exhausted his horse, and he whose horse was the first to lose its wind was the first to die. In a head-on charge against armored lancers, it was suicidal.

Especially since the Dothraki's charge had been broken when it reached Eddard and his four remaining men (Niall had died under a bloodrider's arakh), who had met the Dothraki charge with one of their own; the odds against five men surviving a charge against eleven thousand were laughably long, but in mounted combat it was always better to meet a charge with a counter-charge rather than meet it at the standstill, and so Eddard and his men had attacked. When they met the Dothraki it caused the men closest to their point of impact to turn in towards them, causing an eddy-like effect in the center of the Dothraki host, while on either side the riders charged on towards the infantry. As a result, when the Myrish knights reached the Dothraki, they hit, not a charging enemy, but a swirling mass of men and horses, many of whom were either at an angle or even broadside on to them.

The effect was roughly akin to that of a ten-pound sledgehammer swung down onto a bowl of eggs. A rippling chorus of wet, crackling thuds momentarily drowned out the thunder of hooves as the lances tore through the nomad riders. The Dothraki horses, tireless, stout, and dauntless as they were, simply did not have the mass to meet heavy coursers and destriers at the charge. The force of impact as the western chargers met them shoulder-to-shoulder drove many of them back onto their haunches; some, screaming in equine terror, were bowled completely off their hooves. As the Dothraki reeled from the shock of impact, the knights and men-at-arms, who had trained to do exactly this from the age of seven, discarded the stubs of their broken lances, drew their swords, axes, maces, and war hammers, and spurred deeper into the fray, roaring their battle cries.

This would have been bad enough for the Dothraki. But while their center was being savaged by the heavy cavalry, their flanking squadrons were facing an even greater enemy.

XXX

Thoros of Myr had never been a very priestly man. In fact, if it were not for his skill at arms, his genial nature, and the fact that he had memorized most of the scriptures before his seventeenth year, he would almost certainly have been thrown out of the Red Temple in disgrace for drunkenness, fornication, and conduct unbecoming a novice in that he tended to punctuate his arguments with his fists. As it was, High Priest Danikos had simply shaken his head, remarked that the god had a use even for sots, lechers, and brawlers, and ordered that he be given extra weapons training and religious instruction. As Danikos had seen it, the best way to keep Thoros out of trouble was to mire him in either the classroom or the training yard as much as decently possible, hopefully teaching him self-control or at least leaving him too exhausted to get up to the hijinks that made him the despair of old Innes, the formidable master of novices.

So Thoros, who to his credit learned both quickly and deeply when given sufficient motivation, grew to become one of the Red Temple of Myr's most formidable warriors and learned scholars, although his fondness for wine, women, and violent disputation meant that he never advanced beyond the first grade of priesthood. Indeed, in spite of the orders that he be kept busy every waking hour, he had managed to continue his escapades, which climaxed in an epic misadventure in which he had helped drink the Pied Merlin dry, knocked out a glassblower for daring to dispute theology with him, and added insult to injury by seducing the man's wife over his unconscious body. The morning afterward, Danikos, who had been thoroughly informed of Thoros' doings by the City Watch, had called him into his study and informed him that he was going to King's Landing to spread the Faith of R'hllor. This, he had sternly informed Thoros, was to be considered a punishment of exile in that he was not to petition to be allowed to return for at least a year, and also a favor in that it would put him beyond reach of the Glassblower's Guild.

Thoros had been thoroughly miserable for most of his stay in Westeros. For despite his misbehavior he did have a young man's zeal for the god's service, and he had been unable to accomplish anything to spread the worship of the Lord of Light in Westeros. Aerys had not only been too insane to be converted, but after Thoros had told him (very carefully, not being entirely stupid) that no, he could not set a man on fire solely by the power of the god, he had lost interest in R'hllor's faith generally and Thoros specifically, except for the paranoia he leveled at everyone. Robert, when he took the throne, had been too preoccupied with finding his lost betrothed, then too sunk in grief, and then too absorbed in forming the Sunset Company to discuss theology, although Thoros had found him to at least be a good drinking companion the one time they had shared a keg. As for Stannis, not only did he seem genuinely uninterested in theological matters, but the need to maintain the friendship of the Faith of the Seven and the influence of his Lannister wife had made it awkward for him to even receive Thoros, much less entertain the idea of converting. As for the other Westerosi, they had been quite happy with their seven gods, thank you very much, although only the nobles and the better sort of the burghers had been that polite about it; the smallfolk had been more vehement. The only comfort had been the availability of good wine and women of negotiable virtue, but even that had been restricted; the stipend the Temple allowed him hadn't covered much beyond the cost of bed, board, and beer.

So, when the year was up, Thoros had petitioned to be allowed home, owing to his lack of progress and the unlikelihood of making any. His petition had been granted, contingent on his good behavior, and he had landed eight days before Myr was besieged by the Sunset Company. As one of the best swordsmen that the Red Temple could command, he had been only a step behind Danikos when the Red Sword had marched to the Great Eastern Gate to overthrow the magisters and admit the Westerosi. It was Thoros who had led the party of slaves that broke open the defense of the captured tower, and when Kalarus, who had assumed command after Danikos was killed, ordered the Red Sword back to the Temple, it was Thoros who led the vanguard through the chaos of the streets.

And when the Royal Army had marched out from Myr to face the Dothraki, it was Thoros who was sent along to minister to those who followed the God of Flame and Shadow. "It will be good for you to be a priest, as well as a fighter," Kalarus had said, looking more like an irascible old owl than ever with his bushy brows beetling over his stern eyes. "The god knows that I, for one, have beaten enough doctrine into your thick skull over the years. And you have the gift of the gab, as the Northmen among the Andals put it; if any man can reconcile them to the fact that our faith has never put aside the sword, as theirs has, you can." So Thoros had stuffed the few possessions he was allowed as a low-ranking priest into a sack, donned his mail and his sword, and presented himself to Lord Stark for duty.

The march to Narrow Run had been pleasant enough, even enjoyable after a fashion, especially once Thoros had gotten used to sleeping under the open sky; for a man who had been born and lived his whole life within city walls, the thought of not having a roof over your head as you slept was alarming. What if it rained? But Thoros, to his mild surprise, had not only grown to like living outdoors, but had also come to enjoy leading the nightfire service. In the Red Temple everything had been so complicated that he had always been afraid of saying the wrong thing, and in Westeros he had been a stranger among a strange people, most of whom spoke only a few words of his native language. But out here on the plains, with only a simple fire and a ring of soldiers seeking the comfort of their faith as they marched to face a dreaded enemy, Thoros had found the words springing to his tongue unbidden. Quite easy, really; simply keep the focus on those chapters and verses that spoke of the god's love for his children, and the protection he would give to those who followed him, and the punishment he would visit on their enemies.

Which was exactly what he was doing now, as he strode along behind the lines of spearmen bracing to receive cavalry and crossbowmen spanning their weapons and loosing in volleys by ranks, with thousands of angry Dothraki bearing down on them. "Him that dwells in the shelter of R'hllor shall find refuge in His light," he declaimed, reciting from one his favorite psalms to the Lord of Light. "You shall not fear the terror of the night, nor the arrow that flies by day, nor the pestilence that walks in darkness, nor the plague that destroys at midday. Though a thousand fall at your right hand, and ten thousand at your left, it shall not come near to you. You shall see with your eyes how the Lord of Light punishes the wicked." He broke off to nod to Septon Jonothor, who was also walking the lines and chanting the scriptures of his faith; a good man that, he reminded Thoros of Kalarus. No wonder they got along. Tramping onward he continued with the psalm. "He is the candle-fire and the sun-fire," he chanted "and sees all that transpires in his light. Therefore we shall not fear, though the night draw in upon us, and darkness cover the earth, for still He is with us."

All the while the drumming of hooves and the ululating bloodscream of the Dothraki was growing ever louder, until the commands of the sergeants and officers were drowned out, and Thoros, who had been trained to oratory by some of the best in the business, had to shout to make himself heard. "Thus sayeth the Lord of Light;" he roared, "'I am the fire in your hearts, the light in your eyes, the heat in your loins. I am the sun that warms your days, and the stars that light the night. Though you walk under the shadow of death, I shall be with you, and you shall fear nothing. For I have kindled the fire of my strength within you, that the servants of darkness shall have no power over you.'" As the thunder of the hooves and the howling of the nomads rose to a crescendo Thoros pushed through the volleying crossbowmen, planted his hands against the backs of a pair of spearmen, bellowed "Lord of Light, defend us!" and braced for impact.

He needn't have worried.

In pursuit of a goal they deem worthy humans will travel for miles across burning desert or frozen tundra, march into storms of missiles, even deliberately starve or immolate themselves. The only limit to the trauma that humans will willingly endure in pursuit of a goal is the ability of the human body to withstand punishment. This ability to willfully disregard the instinct of self-preservation, however, is uniquely human.

Horses, to name only one other animal, are sane and sensible creatures with a healthy respect for their own skins and have a far more conservative idea of what constitutes an unacceptable level of pain or danger beyond which they will not go. It is possible, by dint of long training, to teach a horse to shoulder a single, small obstacle aside, but there is _no_ amount of training that will induce a horse to run headlong into a large solid obstacle that it can't see through. Horses are far too careful of their legs to endanger them so, and with good reason; for a horse, a broken leg is almost invariably fatal.

It is this confluence of equine biology and psychology that allows formed, well-disciplined infantry to stand against cavalry. Infantry in loose formation, or that are foolish enough to try and run, are meat on the chopping block for cavalry. But infantry that have the rigorous training and the iron discipline and the stony pride that allows them to stand fast with hundreds of speeding horses carrying heavily armed and very angry strangers bearing down on them have little to fear from cavalry. A lance can allow a horseman to outreach a spear, and horse archers do not need to close to within arm's reach to be dangerous, but infantry that maintain close formation and don't break are immune from the kind of slaughter that cavalry can inflict on infantry.

The men of the Iron Legion who were on the field of Narrow Run that day might have been new soldiers, but pound for pound they were probably the best new soldiers of their kind in the known world. Ninety-nine in every hundred of them were ex-slaves, and the memory of the years of grinding servitude and unceasing degradation lay ever in the back of their minds so that they turned to their new lives with zeal comparable to that of religious converts. They had been slaves, but now they were men, _free_ men. And this, they had been taught by the Westerosi sergeants who had trained them, was how free men fought; shoulder to shoulder with their comrades in the shield-wall, where the strength of the company was the man, and the strength of the man was the company.

They had learned well. And so on that day at Narrow Run, with the avalanche-rumble of the hooves and the war-cries of the Dothraki riders drowning out the orders of their officers, the curses of their sergeants, and the exhortations of their priests, and with the fate of half a world riding on their shoulders, the spearmen of the Iron Legion planted their feet, tucked their shoulders into their shields, and stood fast.

And the Dothraki charge broke like a wave against a cliff. All along the line the Dothraki horses baulked at the solid wall of shields and the hedge of spear-points, whinnying in protest as their riders sought to urge them on with curses and blows of their heels and the flats of their arakhs. Those Dothraki who had drawn their bows instead of their arakhs during the charge bent them now, and shot as only the horse-lords could shoot, but the tall kite shields and the lowered helmets of the spearmen offered few vulnerable targets. And while the Dothraki shot, the crossbowmen of the legions and the hundred Westerosi archers were also shooting. The crossbowmen were shooting by rote now, spanning their bows, levelling them at the Dothraki, and loosing their bolts without even aiming more than necessary to keep from shooting a comrade in the back, but with the nomads stalled barely forty feet in front of them aiming was unimportant. What was important was that the crossbowmen of the Iron Legion were loosing two bolts a minute in ranked volleys, and there were two thousand of them.

Behind the lines of the Legion, Ser Brynden Tully smiled. He had had his doubts about the Iron Legion, but he was certainly thankful to see them disproved. Now, with the Dothraki brought to a halt in front of the Legion's lines and easy targets for the crossbows, the easy move would be to let the spearmen continue to stand, holding the riders at bay while the crossbowmen emptied their quivers into them. That, however, would mean giving the Dothraki time to think, time to realize their mistake in charging the Legion head-on, time to let cold cunning take the place of hot anger, time to reorganize themselves and exploit their advantage in mobility and firepower. Or, if they truly held foot soldiers in contempt, as Brynden was told, time to ride back to the aid of their fellows, overwhelm the knights, and then turn on the infantry again and submerge them.

So instead of letting his crossbowmen continue to shoot, Brynden raised his sword overhead and chopped it down to point towards the nomad cavalry milling in front of the Legion. "Advance!" he roared.

XXX

Although the common perception of the Dothraki was of a barbarous, anarchic collection of hordes that lived only by the law of the sword, there were, in fact, rules that governed Dothraki warfare. You did not poison water supplies. You did not deliberately set fire to the plains. And you thrice three times _never_ broke the protection of a truce flag. To do any of these things was to arouse the wrath of the horse god in its most terrible aspect; the Midnight Mare, She who guarded the road to hell and herded thither those who broke the horse god's commandments. The best way to avert Her anger, it was known, was to destroy utterly those who profaned against the laws of the horse god, so that there was no need for Her to arise in dread and smite the evil-doer Herself, along with anyone who happened to be nearby.

These walkers who faced the khalasar of Khal Zirqo had killed him under a truce flag, apparently without warning or even provocation. All any of the Dothraki had seen was the khal and his bloodriders speaking to the walkers, and then one of them had whipped out his sword and cut the khal out of the saddle without even giving him the chance to fight back. There were greater sacrileges in the Dothraki religion, but that was well up the river, as the saying went.

So even though the walker cavalry (and wasn't that also a perversion of the natural order of things?) seemed almost impervious to their arakhs, even though the walker foot-fighters were proving unnaturally, nigh-presumptuously stubborn, the Dothraki fought on. Their khal lay dead, murdered by treachery, and the law of their god had been shattered; even among a mild and pacific people there would have been anger. The Dothraki, the fiercest and most belligerent tribe the plains had yet spawned, had gone beyond anger into a berserk fury which drove them into the fray like a lash of fire. And if their arakhs were all but useless against the knights and men-at-arms, and of only limited effect against the armored infantry of the Iron Legion, their bows were still strong, their arrowheads still keen, and they still had the fighting ability that was ingrained into every freeborn man of their nation.

So even among the knights, they inflicted casualties. Ser Leofric Corbray, who had sailed across an ocean to seek a warrior's death, found it when a Dothraki rider wrestled him off his horse, forced up his visor, and buried the broad-bladed knife that every Dothraki carried into his face. Ser Lanard Blackpool was shot through the throat by a Dothraki arrow that slammed through the mail aventail attached to the lower brim of his helmet and fell from his horse to choke his life out in bloody gouts, never to receive the lordship he had sought. Ten other knights were killed that day, either shot, wrestled down and stabbed through the gaps in their armor, or unhorsed and trampled, while two-score more were wounded to varying degrees. Among the infantry of the Legion, less heavily armored than the elite heavy cavalry, the losses were worse; of the seven thousand Legion infantry who took the field that day, two hundred and seventy-eight were killed outright, and twice as many more or less wounded by arakh and bow and knife and the lashing hooves of the Dothraki chargers.

But to inflict even that much damage the Dothraki suffered terribly. All four of Khal Zirqo's adult sons died on the field of Narrow Run; Virsallo was shot through the bowel and liver by crossbow bolts, Rhozo's skull was split to the teeth by a knight's axe, Asso was cut almost in half through the midriff by a sergeant's glaive, and Chomokko, khalakka of the host and deepest pride of his father, was speared through the chest by a man-at-arms' lance in the first shock of impact as the knights charged home. Scores of riders had died in that initial charge, and hundreds more fell as the knights and men-at-arms rampaged through their ranks like steel-clad tigers. Deep in the host, only Daimh remained of the household men who had followed Eddard Stark to the parley, but the Iron Wolf, unhorsed and his plate armor spattered with gore, still stood tall and laid about him with his longsword, and the long hours of practice in which he had dueled some of the best swordsmen that the Kingdom of Myr had to offer paid off. When Lyn Corbray cut his way through to Eddard's side, he found him in the center of a ring of slain nomads two and three deep in places, and still fighting on. Ser Vernan Irons and Ser Brynnan the Axe also made their names on the field of Narrow Run, standing back to back over the body of their friend Ser Lanard and cutting down all who came in reach of their sword and axe.

Against the Iron Legion the Dothraki suffered even more grievously. When Ser Brynden gave the order to advance, five thousand Legion spearmen shifted their spears to the level, raised the points of their shields off the ground where they had braced them to receive the charge, and powered into the stalled nomad riders with a rush that was no less ferocious for having a short run. The spears lashed out like striking vipers, punching the Dothraki off their horses or else striking the horses themselves to spill the rider to the ground. Once unhorsed, any nomad that did not bounce back to his feet instantly and begin laying about him with arakh and knife was pounded into the blood-sodden dirt by the shields, while even those that did make it to their feet were still easy prey for the spears. If a Legion spearman lost his spear, then their sharp-pointed shortswords came out and they reverted to the drill hammered into them by the Westerosi sergeants; keep your shield high to block the downward cut of the horseman, stick your blade into horse or man with a short, punching thrust, and repeat as necessary. If, by chance, you found yourself facing a horse head-on, then punch the top edge of your shield into the horse's mouth until it throws the rider, and then press forward to finish him off while he's still stunned. The crossbowmen pressed forward with the spears, either shooting point-blank or, after emptying their quivers, dropping their crossbows to draw shortsword and buckler and wade in. Sergeants and officers pushed forward with their men, glaives and bills and halberds chopping down horse and rider, while from the rear Ser Brynden Tully led his small household into the fray.

After a time the Legion and the khalasar became intermingled, and it was during this time that the fighting was most ferocious as Legion spearmen sought to contain and beat down knots of recalcitrant Dothraki. Captain Akhollo, fighting as hard against his erstwhile people as he had against the magisters of Pentos and Myr, won laurels for his bravery and leadership that day as he led an improvised flying squad of crossbowmen who had run out of ammunition in vicious attacks to reduce such pockets. Two of Khal Zirqo's kos, Sajo and Hazo, were killed in the chaos of the melee, Sajo cut out of the saddle by Ser Brynden and Hazo unhorsed and beaten into red ruin by hammering shields. Thoros of Myr and Septon Jonothor saved each other's life; Thoros hacking down a Dothraki who had knocked the septon to the ground, and Jonothor using his staff to bludgeon another who attempted to stab Thoros in the back. The earth, formerly parched from the summer heat, became sodden with the blood and fluids of thousands of men and horses, until Narrow Run became a corpse-choked trickle of blood.

Eventually, as the sun drew down to the horizon, the Dothraki began to pull away from the field. They had fought mercilessly, gripped by red wrath, for five hours, but now that fury was ebbing and they began to _see_ how many of their brothers and fathers and sons and uncles and cousins and nephews had fallen, and how many of the walkers still remained. But where another people might have succumbed to terror and fled the field in panic, the Dothraki still had their pride. They were the horse-lords, the undisputed masters of the plains, and it was beneath their dignity to show fear to walkers. So they retreated, not at a run or a gallop, but at a walk, fighting their way clear and turning back to tear into any who pressed them too closely. The Royal Army of Myr, for their part, let them go gladly; after so long in combat, even the hardiest knight and the most stalwart infantryman was teetering on the edge of exhaustion, and many men were collapsing where they stood as the battle-fury drained away.

Narrow Run would become one of the most written-about battles in history. Over the years various historians would hail it as the first defeat suffered by a Dothraki khalasar since the Century of Blood, the battle where the Iron Legion won its spurs, the battle that made the Kingdom of Myr, and various other lauds. But those were plaudits given many years later and with the benefit of considerable hindsight. On that day, the prevailing reaction among the Royal Army was summed up by Ser Brynden Tully, whose words were only recorded in the memoir of his squire. _"__Gods save me," the Blackfish said as he cleaned and sheathed his sword, "but we made a right bloody shitheap out of this place."_


	39. Chapter 39: Two Gold Dragons

**Author's Note: So this is the first of several chapters showing the immediate aftermath of the First Slave War. As a whole, this mini-arc takes place over the course of two or three sennights right after the Conference of Pentos and the Battle of Narrow Run.**

Ser Gerion Lannister, Master of Whispers and acting Captain of the city of Myr, raised an eyebrow as the fleet sailed into the harbor. At his last count the Royal Fleet numbered only thirty keels; by his count there were at least twice that many longships and about a dozen fatter ships passing the breakwater that marked the outer perimeter of the harbor, many of them flying banners that he didn't recognize. If it wasn't for the fact that Victarion Greyjoy's _Iron Storm _was in the lead with Greyjoy's unmistakable silhouette in the bows, he'd have suspected a trick. That said, the fact that the galleys that many of the longships had in tow had their masts unstepped and their oars drawn in, with each of the towed ships trailing a Tyroshi banner in the sea behind them, seemed to militate against this being a ruse. Behind him the crowd was starting to murmur excitedly; evidently something had happened on the Sea of Myrth.

Twenty minutes later, the _Iron Storm_ and another longship that Gerion didn't recognize were tied up alongside the quay and Victarion Greyjoy had leapt ashore without waiting for the longshoremen to rig a gangplank, followed by a score of his crew and mimicked by a similar party from the other ship. As the rest of the fleet began to nose up to the docks, Victarion marched up to Gerion, followed by the other Ironborn, and slammed a gauntleted fist against his breastplate in salute. "Ser Gerion," he boomed, "we are triumphant!"

The first outburst of cheering took a while to die down, even with Gerion's household men thumping their shields for quiet. "You defeated the Tyroshi fleet in battle?" Gerion asked, keeping his composure with some difficulty.

Victarion nodded. "First, I must introduce you to the man who made it possible," he said, gesturing back to the strange ship, where a party of Ironborn housecarls was carrying a coffin down the gangplank. As they advanced at a slow march and came to a halt before them, Victarion went on. "Lord Erik Ironmaker led a fleet of a hundred longships from the Iron Isles to pledge sword and sail to King Robert. On the way here they swept through the Stepstones with fire and the axe, sinking twenty galleys before turning to attempt the channel between Tyrosh isle and the mainland. By the grace of the Drowned God and the aid of Davos the smuggler, who I shall introduce to you later, they passed the channel unmolested, and sailed along the coast towards the city. Along the way, they came across a squadron of the Tyroshi fleet eighty galleys strong, which had been pursuing us towards the coast. Lord Ironmaker immediately ordered the attack, and his ships took the Tyroshi in their flank while we, not questioning where our aid had come from, turned and attacked into their front. The battle raged for most of that day, and when it was ended we had sunk, burned, or taken seventy of the Tyroshi galleys in return for the loss of twenty ships and fourteen hundred men killed or wounded. Among them," Victarion gestured to the coffin, "was Lord Ironmaker, who was slain at the head of his men."

The Ironborn who had first leapt off the strange ship, a grizzled, wolfishly-built man whose forked beard was done in a pair of simple braids, stepped forward. "This is true," he said shortly. "I am Roryn Pyke, first mate to the Ironmaker, and I fought at his side in the battle. He led us over the rail onto a Tyroshi galley, and after clearing it led us over the other side's rail onto another. We were only forty men, then, but the Drowned God was with us, and most of all with the Ironmaker. Ten men he killed in as many strides, laughing as he slew, and he was the first to reach the enemy's quarterdeck. There he fought the enemy captain, and although he was stabbed through the belly he beat the other man down with his hammer and crushed his chest. He died on that ship, with a smile on his face and the names of his dead shipmates on his lips." Roryn, whose voice had been thickening throughout his tale, stopped suddenly, and if Gerion hadn't known better he'd have sworn the other man was fighting back tears. "The Drowned God needed a strong oarsman," he said finally, "and none of us was stronger than the Ironmaker. The god grant that I go as my captain did when He takes me." He gestured at the coffin. "We brought him here," he went on, "so that he could complete his last voyage."

Gerion nodded solemnly. "What is dead may never die," he replied, "and while I live the name of Lord Erik Ironmaker will be remembered. By your leave, I will light candles to the Warrior for him, and have Divine Offices said for his soul; courage deserves honor, even from the gods." Roryn nodded, and the Ironborn standing behind him murmured approval. Gerion stifled a chuckle at the notion that he, whose family's original claim to lordship was the ability to defeat Ironborn, would do such honor to a reaver, passing it off as a clearing of his throat, and raised his voice. "In the name of His Grace King Robert," he declaimed. "I bid you welcome, my friends, and thank you for the aid you have given us unasked and unlooked-for! I myself shall arrange for your housing while you are in the city, and your wounded shall receive the best care we can provide. Tonight we shall provide wine and ale to drink wassail to the valiant dead, and food to feast their memory." He turned to the crowd. "Let all take note," he went on, "that these men are honored guests of His Grace King Robert. Let all do them such honor as they can, and treat them as kinsmen." He raised his hands. "Hail to the valiant!" he cried. "Hail to the victory they have won for us!"

"HAIL!" the crowd roared, like storm-surf booming against the shore, and the cheers shook the skies.

XXX

The stars gleamed down as the shaman trudged into the ring of sitting and squatting tribesmen and sat heavily on his haunches. He set down his horsehide hand-drum with the careful deliberation of a man walking on the ragged edge of endurance, gripped a waterskin passed towards him with the same exacting control, and sipped slowly. When his eyes lost the glassy look that had been brought on by two days without food and with only minimal water, he looked around at the ring of questioning faces and shook his head. "Nothing," he said heavily. "For all my entreaties and invocations, nothing. The god was silent. This only could I glean; the Midnight Mare is displeased with how few of the walkers we slew, but the blood we shed in the attempt has satisfied Her. We need not fear Her wrath."

The momentary relaxation was dispelled by a question from the far side of the ring. "Has the god abandoned us then?"

The shaman shook his head with the first sign of vigor he had shown since rejoining the khalasar. "No," he said, "the god is still with us. Even now I feel its presence. It simply will not answer my questions." He shrugged. "If we were on the plains or in Vaes Dothrak, away from these cursed walkers and their pollution, maybe I could gain a response. But here and now . . ." he shook his head again. "The best I can say is that the god wishes us to face this trial ourselves."

The Dothraki exchanged glances with one another, or else stared into the fire. If that was so, then it was almost as frightening as if the Midnight Mare was about to rise in fury. The khalasar had crossed the Myrish border with eleven thousand fighting riders in the prime of their strength. Now, if they mounted and armed every boy and elder who could sit a horse and hold a bow or arakh, they could put maybe three thousand riders in the field. Six thousand men lay four days dead at Narrow Run, almost a thousand more were too wounded to fight, and hundreds more had split off from the khalasar in a collection of separate bands, either raiding the countryside to seek what revenge they could find or else riding back to Narrow Run to find the death that they had been cheated of the day of the battle. There was not a tent in the khalasar that had not resounded with the cries of people mourning the loss of a father, a brother, a son, a cousin. In the ring of nomads around the fire there was not a single face that was not at least drawn; those were the few who had refused to cut their braids, claiming that the treachery of the walkers removed the need to express shame at being defeated. The vast majority, however, had kept with tradition, and now looked almost small and ridiculous with their hangdog expressions and their shorn hair; they were the ones who had been outfought by the walker infantry, and the weight of that defeat overrode even the black treachery of the walker who had killed their khal under flag of truce. If the Dothraki reaction to disgrace had been suicide, almost all of those who had survived fighting against that terrible infantry would have slain themselves in shame at losing to men who did not even ride.

As it was, they felt that shame all the more intensely for having lost so definitively and survived. By all the Dothraki canons of manhood every one of them should lie dead on the field alongside their khal. That they had not only survived, but retreated from the field and left their khal's body for the walkers to despoil ate at their souls like acid. "Better that the god truly abandon us," one of the shorn ones muttered in a voice that unintentionally carried through the still air, "than that it should allow us to bear our shame without saying _why_."

Pobo chopped his hand outward in a definitive gesture. "Whatever the god's intention may be," he said, "my path is no different. Khal Zirqo and his bloodriders are dead; as the only surviving ko, it is for me to escort the khaleesi to Vaes Dothrak, so she may join the dosh khaleen. That is the law." He glanced around the ring. "While we escort the khaleesi," he went on, "we can claim the god's protection as we cross the plains. The other khals will not prevent me from fulfilling this last duty." There was a wave of nods and gestures of agreement; if the walkers had blasphemed against the god's laws, other Dothraki would still keep them. "Once we reach Vaes Dothrak, and the khaleesi is delivered to the dosh khaleen, our shaman will take counsel with the god, and learn the meaning of what we have suffered. What you do . . ." Pobo shrugged. "That I leave up to you. You may join other khalasars if you wish, and seek better fortune. For myself," Pobo stood, his face solemn, "I will ride back here, and avenge my khal or die in the attempt. This I swear, before you all and before the god, as the stars look down in witness."

XXX

Robert hated ships almost as much as Ned did. But where Ned's dislike for ships began and ended with his vulnerability to seasickness, Robert's distaste for them stemmed from another source entirely. It had been years now since it had happened, but there were still nights when once again he saw the _Windproud_ breaking up on the rocks of Shipbreaker Bay, powerless to save his parents. He hated feeling powerless even more than he hated ships.

So while he had accepted Justiciar Baholis' offer of a flotilla of Braavosi galleys to carry him and his household back to Myr politely, he had done so with gritted teeth and clenched fists. The treaty that had been forced upon him was reason enough to be angry with the Braavosi, but then he had learned that he had deliberately been left ignorant of the Dothraki horde heading for Myr. Vito Nestoris, who was sailing with them to lay the groundwork for the opening of a branch of the Iron Bank in Myr city, had been profusely apologetic when Robert had confronted him, calling the gods to witness that he would have told Robert about the Dothraki in a heartbeat, if he had been permitted, but he was a man under authority. Giulio Armati had been less contrite, saying only that he had been ordered not to mention the Dothraki to Robert, and as a loyal servant of the Sealord and the Council he had had no choice but to obey. Robert had been sorely tempted to punch his infuriatingly composed face until it fell apart, but he had restrained himself. He needed Braavos' money and friendship more than he needed to vent his anger on a glorified errand boy.

Even after reminding himself of that for the twentieth time in the past five days, Robert still couldn't help but glower at the plain and undecorated walls of his cabin. While he had been getting trapped into a bad peace in Pentos, Ned had been left to face the Dothraki with barely six thousand men ready to hand, maybe seven thousand if he pulled the border garrisons north. And Robert was powerless to do anything about it. _I should have been there,_ Robert growled in the privacy of his mind. _I swore to fight for my people. It should have been me on that field and Ned at that damned conference. Ned would have known how to answer Jon and Tregano and their damned words._

If nothing else, Ned would have thought of something to forestall the most galling part of the whole rigmarole. After the treaty had been signed, Donesso of Tyrosh and Brachio of Lys had each snapped their fingers, summoning forward a pair of slaves bearing silk cushions, upon each of which rested a single gold coin. Robert had heard that Stannis was changing the gold currency of the Seven Kingdoms to stags and the silver to falcons, but the reparations offered by the ambassadors of Tyrosh and Lys were both gold dragons minted with the name and face of Aerys the Mad.

It had taken all of Robert's self-control not to throw Donesso and Brachio through the nearest window.

Robert glared at the two golden coins where they sat, gleaming inoffensively, on the table of his cabin. He would have them strung on a chain, he decided, and wear them around his neck to remind himself of the price of defeat. He would learn how to fight with words as well as he did with his hammer, he vowed, and he would do his utmost to trap the slavers in such a web as he had been trapped in. And when the day of reckoning came, he would give Tyrosh and Lys their money back. In full and with interest.

He signed himself with the seven-pointed star to seal the oath, his hand trembling with suppressed rage.


	40. Chapter 40: The Cost of Treachery

The great hall of the Red Keep was designed to be overbearing. The second-largest chamber of its sort in Westeros after that of Harrenhal, it could comfortably accommodate more than a thousand people, all standing under the shadow of the Iron Throne. In Targaryen days it had been even more forbidding, what with the great dragon skulls mounted on the walls, but the banners that had replaced the dragon skulls were just as impressive in their way. Stannis Baratheon had commanded that every noble and knightly family who swore fealty to him was to send a banner to the Red Keep as a token of their fealty, and so the great hall was festooned with hundreds of banners. Near the entrance were the small pennants sent by landed knights and minor nobles, while midway along the hall were the banners of the middle nobility; the burning tree of the Marbrands, the Mallister eagle, the oak leaves of the Oakhearts, the bridge-and-towers of the Freys, the lances of the Gaunts, the flayed man of the Boltons, the Bracken horse, and the badger of the Lyddens, to name only a few, brushed against each other in the draft in no particular order. Closest to the throne were the banners of the great houses; the Tully salmon, the direwolf of the Starks, the Tyrell rose, the moon-and-falcon of the Arryns, and the lion rampant of the Lannisters, all flanking the truly massive Baratheon banner that hung directly behind the throne.

Marq Grafton had to admit, as he marched down the aisle towards the throne, that the banners were, in their way, an even bigger threat than the dragon skulls had been. _Look,_ they said,_and imagine seeing these banners flying above an army. Imagine what such an army would look like, across the field of war._ Again, he congratulated himself on leaving the dragons when he could.

At the correct distance, some fifteen feet from the Stormguards standing at the foot of the dais that held the throne, he stamped to a halt, his captains doing likewise behind him, and bent the knee with a flourish of his short cape. "Your Grace," he declaimed, "I am returned from my folly, and cry your pardon."

Marq couldn't see Stannis with his eyes cast downwards, but he could hear the raised eyebrow in Stannis' reply. "Folly, you say, Lord Grafton? I was led to understand that you had taken careful deliberations before sailing to support Rhaegar the accursed."

"I did, Your Grace, with the information available to me at the time," Marq said, injecting a note of sorrow into his voice. "But I was misled by the information I had, and Rhaegar, it transpired, lied about his chances of success. Against your royal brother King Robert he had no more chance than a fox against a wolf."

"And yet you remained with the Targaryens even after Rhaegar's death, we are told," came a high, cold voice that Marq could only guess belonged to Queen Cersei; he had seen her sitting at Stannis' left hand. "What are we to think of this seeming obstinance in your folly?"

"That I was but biding my time to see if something could be salvaged from the ruin, Your Grace," Marq replied, "and after my hopes were dashed, that I was taking the time to plan most carefully for how I could escape the Targaryens while preserving my life and the lives of the men under me. The men now leading the exiles are as desperate as any robber band, Your Grace; if Arthur Dayne or Barristan Selmy had caught wind of my scheme, they would have slain any man who they suspected of treason."

"You will refer to the knights you have just named by their proper ranks, if you please," Stannis said in a voice that was no less absolute for being completely calm. "Traitors under sentence of death they may be, but they have not been formally stripped of their knighthoods."

Marq ducked his head even lower for a heartbeat. "As Your Grace commands. So I laid my plans, concealing them from Ser Arthur and Ser Barristan, and when the time came I escaped with my ships and those of the royal fleet, who also cry Your Grace's pardon and beg to return to your service. If Your Grace will allow, I will also present the treasures that I was able to make away with in my escape, for it was in my mind to do what damage I could to the Targaryens in my flight, beyond merely depriving them of their ships."

"Rise then, and do so," said Stannis, to which Marq rose to his feet and gestured sharply at the small party that had hung back near the doors of the Great Hall. When the party halted at his side, he drew back the lid of the chest to reveal four dragon eggs.

"The treasures of House Targaryen, Your Grace," he declared over the chorus of murmurs that arose, "an emperor's ransom in dragon eggs. In addition," he stepped aside and indicated his other offering with a sweeping gesture, "allow me to present Her Highness, Praela Targaryen, late queen to Rhaegar Targaryen, without whose aid my escape would have been impossible."

"And what, pray, is the meaning of her being presented as a treasure?" Stannis asked. "We are forbidden from receiving people as gifts, my lord; such is the custom of slavers, which is forbidden under the law of the realm."

"It was in my mind that she would make an ornament of your court, Your Grace, and a lady-in-waiting for Her Grace the Queen," Marq said smoothly. "It would be more fitting for a queen to be held securely in a royal court, where she might remain in the style to which she is accustomed, than to force her into the keeping of the Faith, where she would be forced to pray to gods not her own."

"Perhaps," said Queen Cersei. "Lady Praela, is it your will to become our lady-in-waiting?"

Praela raised her chin. "It is, Your Grace," she replied steadily, looking Cersei squarely in the eye with a gaze of iron as she did so.

Stannis nodded. "Then be welcome in our court, my lady," he said courteously, before turning back to Marq. "And what, I wonder, do you wish in return for these presents you give us, Lord Grafton?"

Marq bowed low. "Only to be restored to my seat of Gulltown, Your Grace, and to leave it my heirs after me," he said humbly, "and to be your loyal liege-man henceforward."

"As loyal a liege-man as you were to Rhaegar?" Stannis asked, an arch tone entering his voice. "Your gifts we accept, with our thanks, but a good deed does not wipe out the bad. You and every man with you have committed treason; we would be within our rights to have you all cut down on the spot." The Stormguards at the foot of the dais, and those who had lined the aisle to the throne, drew their swords with a subtle, manifold rasp of steel on wood and leather. Marq stared at the stone-faced young man on the Iron Throne, his jaw starting to gape; this was _not_ how he had expected this to go. "However," Stannis continued, "extenuating circumstances being as they are, we are inclined to exercise our prerogative of mercy. You who were captains in our fleet, we will accept you back into our service on the condition that you place your families under our hand as hostages to your loyalty. Any of you who do not wish to serve thus may serve us at the Wall. You who were captains in the fleet of Lord Grafton, you have committed treason not only against ourself but against our Hand Lord Arryn, and so at his recommendation we offer you the choice of the Wall or the sword; you may have the length of the night to consider your choice." Stannis' gaze swept the captains like an icy breeze. "Take heed; this is the path of mercy we offer you. If you think it insufficient, then you may whistle for a better offer for all the good it may do you."

Stannis turned his cold, cold gaze to Marq. "As for you, Lord Grafton, to you also we shall show mercy, in gratitude for these gifts you have brought us and the harm you have done the Targaryens by spiriting them away. Our castellan at Ghaston Grey finds himself so much at sea that he has need of a captain to hold the castle while he is away. We shall transport you there on the morning tide, in order to take up the duty, unless you would prefer to serve us at the Wall. Between the two, we would recommend Ghaston Grey; we are told that the weather is more pleasant and the scenery more appealing. You need not fear for the dragon egg you sought to appropriate for yourself," at Marq's panicked expression Stannis only nodded. "Yes we know about it, your man talked, and it is quite safe in your personal effects; it is beneath our dignity to commit petty theft. We hope it will give you some comfort during your term of office, which we pray will be long and uninteresting."

Marq, who had only been able to listen in astonishment and growing fury as his plans collapsed around his ears, finally found his voice. "I've given you the second-largest fleet in the known world," he choked out, his voice thick with anger. _"__I've given you the Narrow Sea on a plate! You and the Braavosi!"_

"And you are still rich, still a lord, and still alive," Stannis said coolly. "All in all, you are doing remarkably well for a confessed traitor. Do not let us detain you."

Marq was still gobbling fury when a pair of his captains took him under the arms and steered him out of the hall.

XXX

At the knock on his door, Jaspar rose from his desk and strode across the small room he had been given in what had been a Temple of Trade and was now the First Sept of Myr. Opening the door, he was struck momentarily dumb with surprise to see Septon Jonothor standing in the hall. "Good evening, brother," Jonothor said pleasantly, his severe face mild for once. "May I come in?"

"B-By all means, brother," Jaspar said, flushing as he stood aside; it had taken him years to overcome that bloody stammer and it still snuck up on him on occasion. Usually when he was taken off guard or unexpectedly summoned before authority, which Jonothor certainly constituted, given his stature in the Kingdom. As Jonothor walked in he closed the door behind him and gestured at the stool before his desk that constituted one of only three pieces of furniture in the spartan chamber. "Please, sit. I was just doing some writing when you knocked."

Jonothor glanced at the desk, then glanced again. "You write poetry?" he asked interestedly.

Jaspar shrugged as he sat on his pallet. "Infrequently, and not very well," he said ruefully. "Certainly nothing to rival Jon of the Star."

"Who is?" Jonothor asked rhetorically, his eyes wandering. "_Amen, the father smiled/How love's a cajoler in you!/ No sooner said than lo/ the universe sprang to view," _he quoted, shaking his head as he finished. "Somewhat unorthodox, perhaps, but a brilliant poet."

"Indeed," Jaspar said, nodding; he had never gone wrong by agreeing with someone of higher rank than himself. "If I may ask, brother, what brings you here? I had thought you would be at the palace helping to plan the celebration of the King's victory." The army had returned yesterday morning, and the news of the destruction of the Dothraki khalasar had enhanced the festive mood that had been instilled by the Ironborn's victory at sea. In turn, the news that had arrived only this morning that a treaty of peace had been concluded had led to an official decree that, as soon as King Robert landed, there was to be a public celebration, with a procession down the Street of Freedom, a tournament outside the city walls, and, it was rumored, the elevation of men who had distinguished themselves in the sea-fight or at Narrow Run to the nobility and the chivalry. Preparations were already underway.

Jonothor waved a hand. "My part in the planning is already done," he said. "I am here to say good-bye to you, before you leave us tomorrow."

Jaspar froze, fear coursing through his veins. "Leave you, brother?" he asked hesitantly.

"Did you think Ser Leofric Corbray was reconciled to how the High Septon inveigled him into his scheme?" Jonothor asked, his voice blunt. "He told his son, who told Ser Brynden, who told Ser Gerion, who told me. We know what your true purpose here is, _brother._"

The irony imbued in that last word made Jaspar cringe involuntarily. "It matters not," he said, injecting defiance into his voice. "The first three ships to sail for King's Landing after the blockade lifted each carried a copy of my report to the Most Devout and the High Septon. Give it two or three sennights, four at most, and they will know of your heresy. As for myself . . ." he drew himself up, straightening his cassock. "The Stranger waits," he said calmly, "and I trust my Father to judge my soul justly."

"Perhaps, but in your case He will need to wait a while longer," Jonothor said briskly. "There is a ship called the _Salt Shore Lass _berthed at the fourth pier in the docks, sailing for King's Landing on tomorrow's evening tide. Your passage has already been arranged; the captain knows to expect you." He gave Jaspar a lopsided smile. "Consider yourself lucky; if Lord Stark had been told of this, he may have sent you back to the High Septon in a coffin. As it was, that option was seriously discussed. Fortunately, Ser Brynden and Ser Gerion are more level-headed than Ser Lyn, and outvoted him."

Jaspar gaped at him, the wind thoroughly taken out of his sails. "You're letting me go?" he asked incredulously. At Jonothor's nod, he deflated. "In the names of the gods, why?" he asked, utterly bewildered. "You consort with heathens, distort the teachings of the Faith, even take up arms and fight in defiance of Maegor's law . . . what matter one septon more or less?"

"If you need to ask that, then you clearly learned nothing at seminary," Jonothor said, his voice returning to its usual severe tone. "As for your charges, my defense is this. Firstly, that the nature of this kingdom requires me to 'consort with' and come to an accommodation with the pagans who make up a good half of the realm's population. And I must say, I have found better men among the pagans here than I have in King's Landing. Even the Ironborn at least have the courage to face their enemies with sword in hand. Secondly, I firmly believe that the gods welcome and reward _all_ who fight and fall in their cause, regardless of their faith in this life. And thirdly, while I am sorely tempted to indulge in _tu quoque_, arguing _ad hominem_ is the last resort of fools who cannot win otherwise." He chuckled. "Do you know, when I first heard of how the High Septon had inveigled Ser Leofric into serving the Faith, I called him a fool? If he wanted to revive the Faith Militant, all he had to do was look across the sea to what we are building here."

Jonothor gestured at the narrow window that looked out onto the street. "Consider this kingdom, brother," he said. "Here men from more than a score of nations worship the Seven, the old gods, the Drowned God, the Lord of Light, the Moonsingers, and a dozen other deities. The sheer diversity of the people of this kingdom can break it apart at any time. There are only two things that provide the mortar that binds the stones of this kingdom together; loyalty to the King, and commitment to the cause of freedom. A cause, I remind you, that is approved of by the Seven, who offer a martyr's crown for those who die in it." Jonothor rose and began to pace the room. "Two hundred years and more," he continued, "the Faith has dreamed of regaining the right to field the Swords and the Stars. Perhaps not fervently, at times, but dreamed nonetheless. Well, here there are tens of thousands of the finest fighting men in this half of the world, all fighting for one cause that each creed and sect deems holy. And the High Septon would resort to trickery to resurrect the Faith Militant?" He stopped and spread his hands. "The Faith Militant has already been reborn," he declared. "Or rather, the Faiths Militant, plural. They may not be the Swords and the Stars, but they are something older and truer than those orders ever were. The Faith Militant was not originally a separate class of knights and sergeants living apart from the rest of society, the writings of the patriarchs tell us, but rather the muster of every man of the Faith able to bear arms, whether noble, knight, or commoner, called out to defend themselves and their coreligionists against a common enemy. It was only later that the Swords and Stars were instituted, by High Septons seeking greater control over the fighting men of the Faith."

Jonothor gestured towards the window again. "I say it again: _the Faith Militant is reborn_. It is composed of knights who follow the Seven, Northern men-at-arms who follow the old gods, Legion infantry who follow the Seven or the Lord of Light or the Moonsingers, even Ironborn reavers who offer to the Drowned God. And none of them needed to be trapped into pledging life and honor to the cause of holy freedom, as the High Septon trapped Ser Leofric. So before the High Septon levels that charge against me, I suggest that he reflect on how his own schemes along that line not only failed, but led to the death of a valiant knight and a good man who didn't deserve to be forced into conflicting loyalties."

Jonothor lowered his arm. "I'd tell the High Septon as much to his face, but I have been constrained not to," he said with such artless candor that Jaspar, who had grown up listening to powerful men say things they didn't mean, instantly believed him. "For me to take the leave of absence from my duties that such a journey would require, I would have to ask the King's blessing, and it is considered doubtful that he would do so. Ser Gerion is of the opinion that if I were to appear before the Most Devout to testify, I would not leave the room alive, and he has said that he will make that view known to the king when he returns. So I shall have to remain here to await your replacement, or a summons from the Most Devout to answer the charges you have supplied them with evidence for." His stern mouth quirked in a lopsided smile. "Allow me to suggest that they choose their messenger very carefully. Lord Stark may not be one of my parishioners, but we are friends, after a fashion, and the last time someone he cared about was summoned to King's Landing to answer charges, he ended up chasing the guilty ones across an ocean seeking revenge. So I would recommend that they either choose someone who can speak softly enough not to rouse the wolf, or choose someone whose demise would not be grounds for a war."

Jonothor nodded shortly. "Godsspeed your voyage back to King's Landing, brother. Remember my words when the High Septon asks for your recommendation on what to do with me."

As Jonothor showed himself out, Jaspar flopped backwards so that he lay flat on his pallet. Confronting danger wasn't a new experience for him, but never before had so felt the shadow of the Stranger's scythe rest so heavily on his neck. Nor had he ever felt so at a loss. He had come here expecting an easy victory, that all he had to do was hint at the High Septon's stretching forth his hand and Jonothor would be delivered up to him, like a lamb for slaughter. Now, between Jonothor's defiance and the support of the royal government for his heresy, he didn't know what to expect.

XXX

The city of Myr had four graveyards.

The first, within the walls, housed the great and good; men and women of magister families or the richest trading houses. The second, outside the walls on the north side of the city, contained those a grade or two lower; merchants, guild masters, and ship captains rested there. The third, also outside the walls but on the south side of the city, held commoners; free guild craftsmen, small merchants and traders, yeomen, and free sailors, for the most part. There was no cemetery for slaves; street-sweeper, slaughterhouse butcher, glassblower, and rich family's butler were all alike cremated and their ashes scattered in the harbor when they died.

The fourth graveyard, and the newest, also rested outside the walls, and held soldiers.

More specifically it held soldiers of the Royal Army, and of the Sunset Company before them. After the siege, the ground on which the Sunset Company had encamped was appropriated by the Crown for the purpose of burying those who fell in royal service. Duly consecrated by Septon Jonothor and High Priest Kalarus and its gates guarded by a pair of saplings that bade fair to grow into truly impressive oak trees, it already housed just under a thousand graves, between the dead of the siege and the dead of Narrow Run, whose graves were still fresh. The markers were simple stone slabs, with at least the name and date of death of the deceased. In addition to this there was a symbol of the deceased's faith; the seven-pointed star of the Faith, the tree of the old gods, the fiery heart of R'hllor, and for those whose faith was unknown the spear and broken chain of the Legion.

It was here that Eddard was standing, wrapped in his cloak and staring at four graves in particular, when Robert found him. "Your man Daimh told me I'd find you here," he said, gesturing for Ser Dafyn Otley to wait for him at the gate of the cemetery. "He told me that the Blackfish had torn you a new arsehole after the battle and you'd taken it to heart. And since he couldn't knock sense into you, he'd be obliged if I would."

"Daimh," Eddard said dully, "needs to learn to leave well enough alone."

"Does he?" Robert challenged. "Because from what I can see, some sense wouldn't go amiss. You're not helping your men by beating yourself up about them, Ned. They're dead, gods rest them, and if what Ser Brynden tells me about how they died is anywhere near true, then even now they're eating and drinking like lords on the Warrior's tab. Five men against eleven thousand?" He shook his head. "Even for me, that's a tall order."

"That's the point," Eddard replied. "They deserved a lord who wouldn't lead them to their deaths. Gods know they deserved a lord with more honor than to kill a man under flag of truce. Or did Ser Brynden not tell you about that?"

"Oh, he did," Robert said, nodding. "And yes, that was more than a little stupid of you, Ned. That said, your man Daimh told me that the man you killed had enslaved some of the people we freed in Pentos after he had agreed not to." He shrugged. "If he was stupid enough to brag about it to you, then he deserved to get it where the chicken gets the hatchet."

Eddard shook his head. "Whether he deserved it or not doesn't signify," he said. "The Braavosi didn't trust me to negotiate with them even before Narrow Run. You think they're going to trust me now? When that trouble with Septon Jaspar came up, Ser Lyn and Ser Gerion and Ser Brynden didn't trust me to handle it; Gerion said that we had enough troubles without me killing one of the High Septon's pets. Icy Hells, Robert, I can't even properly blame them for not telling me; _I'm_ not sure I can trust myself. That buggering savage was sitting there on his horse laughing and I walked my horse up to him and cut his throat without so much as a 'have at thee'." He shook his head again. "You need a Hand who other people can trust to play by the rules, not a mad dog who can't keep his sword in its scabbard." He reached up, undid the hand-shaped brooch that served as his badge of office, and held it out to Robert. "Name me to what post you will, Your Grace," he said formally, "but I can no longer serve as Your Hand. I've dragged your honor through too much mud already."

Robert looked down at the brooch for a long moment, and then looked back up at Eddard. "If you truly believe that you cannot be my Hand, then so be it," he said. "But keep the post until after the victory celebrations at least. I mean to make some announcements at the end of the tournament anyway, one more shouldn't be too much bother. Until then, take as much time off your duties as you need; Ser Gerion has been doing well at the post since you went off to Narrow Run. Mourn your men, get drunk, find some pretty young thing and take her to bed, do whatever you need to do to get your head in order." As Eddard lowered his hand Robert clapped him on the shoulder. "We're still brothers, Ned," he said simply. "Whatever you do, you'll still have a place in my realm. So take heed; you are not to hurt yourself over this. As your king, I forbid you. I'll have work for you to do after you give me that brooch for good."

XXX

No matter how the Archon of Tyrosh glared at the map that took up the south wall of his private study, it stubbornly refused to show anything but the worst strategic situation the city had faced in generations. In the north, Braavos had effectively doubled its population base, resolved the food security problems that had kept them co-first-among-equals among the Free Cities with Volantis, and acquired an advanced base that put its galleys within easy striking distance of the southern Narrow Sea. In the west, the Seven Kingdoms were rousing from their inward-looking slumber and casting speculative eyes across the Narrow Sea. It had been decades since Westeros had looked eastward, as the last Targaryens turned away from politics to magic and the whims of their madness, but this Stannis who had been so unexpectedly raised to the Iron Throne appeared to have risen to the challenge magnificently. The swift crushing of the Dornish rebellion allowed him to spare attention to the Narrow Sea, the alignment of his interests with those of the Titan gave him an ally, and the return of his fleet gave him the means to impose his will independently. More Westerosi war galleys had been seen more frequently in the Narrow Sea in the past two months than at any point in the past five years, and once the royal fleet was properly retrained to obedience that show of strength would only multiply.

Worst of all was the threat to the east. The collection of mad adventurers that had taken over Myr had evidently turned themselves into a proper state with bewildering speed. Taxes were collected, companies of armed men under the sunset banner trained daily, roads were patrolled, they even had a _navy_, for all love. The Archon hadn't thought of the Ironborn as more than pirates with delusions of grandeur, but those same pirates had all but wiped out a squadron of the Tyroshi navy, widely regarded as one of the three or four best navies in the known world. On land the borders remained unchanged, but that lack of change didn't reflect the devastation that had been visited on the frontiers, which were only now starting to recover from the despoliation inflicted on them by the Great Raid. Nor did they reflect any grand feat of Tyroshi arms; the Sunset Company, or, more properly these days, the Royal Army of Myr, had yet to be seriously challenged on land.

Moreover, Myr had, by all reports, aligned with the Seven Kingdoms and Braavos. A Braavosi alliance had probably been inevitable, but the Archon, and most of the Conclave, had hoped that the reported bad blood between Robert of Myr and Stannis of Westeros might preclude any joining of forces; it was well known, after all, that there was no hate deeper or more abiding than that between estranged brothers. Unfortunately, it seemed that the Baratheon brothers had swallowed their dislike in pursuit of a common goal. Robert may have been cold towards Lord Arryn in their last encounter, but personal contretemps did not strictly mean anything in the business of thrones.

The fact of the matter was that the conditions that had fostered the military aristocracy of Westeros did not exist in Essos. Before the coming of the Sunset Company, Essosi wars had been essentially limited affairs, relegated to the care of professionals who could be trusted to conduct them in a civilized fashion. To the people caught up in them they had been savage enough, but they were nowhere near as ferocious as the wars of Westeros, which were assumed by all involved to be life-or-death affairs, with stakes no lower than the continued survival of the participants. The great accomplishment of the Targaryens had been to change the implements of the old wars from swords and lances to betrothals and fosterings, but even Jaehaerys the Conciliator and Baelor the Blessed had not been able to tame the martial impulses of the Westerosi nobility.

The Archon had already undertaken plans to address the apparent imbalance in martial ability between his nation and the new Myrish state. He had been very fortunate to be able to acquire the services of Daario Naharis and the survivors of the Stormcrows, whose first-hand experience of the Westerosi way of war would be invaluable in the training of Tyrosh's new army. The Second Sons, the Ragged Standard, and the Bright Banners had also been recently retained, at lowered prices, even, in return for the security of a long-term contract; he would have retained the Golden Company if Volantis hadn't snapped them up. A motion requiring every able-bodied male citizen to receive military training had passed the Conclave smoothly, and the guildmasters had agreed to facilitate the process by encouraging their journeymen to enlist in the companies that each guild had agreed to raise. But to incorporate the separate parts of the new army into a whole and train them to a level of prowess that would allow them to contest the Iron Legion would take time. And thanks to Donesso's damned foolish gesture, that time might be limited. Donesso was even now doing penance for that folly by staying on one of his smaller estates on the mainland, which just so happened to also be the one closest to the Myrish border. Hopefully he would learn the appropriate lesson about not bearding a tiger when you lived on the doorstep of its den.

Very little of this, the Archon reflected as he glanced at the border, would have been possible without the Great Raid. It galled him to be in the debt of Lyn Corbray, of all people, but the fact was that his raid had frightened the Conclave into permitting the use of extreme measures. Ordinarily, such an expansion of military strength, and its subsequent inflation of the powers of the Archon who was also Captain-General of the armed forces of the city, would have invited accusations of attempted tyranny. As it was, the Great Raid and the recent defeat in the Sea of Myrth had demonstrated to all and sundry that the barbarians were an existential threat that required extreme solutions. If anyone needed reminding, all they had to do was look to the exiles who had crowded into the Myrish Quarter. One glance at their drawn faces and the somber mourning attire that many of them had adopted was enough to drive home to anyone what fate awaited Tyrosh if the city were to fall to the Andals.

In the meantime, the map still showed enemies on every side bar one, and the Archon knew better than to put his trust in the Lyseni. If it suited their interests, they would throw him to the wolves in a heartbeat. On the other hand, they also seemed to be taking the threat of the Kingdom of Myr seriously; the Archon's spies had reported that the Lyseni conclave had dispatched ambassadors to Astapor with orders to buy Unsullied. If any slave soldiers could withstand the blandishments of the Myrish and their infernal doctrine of abolition, they could.


	41. Chapter 41: Days of Celebrations

The first tournament ever held in Myr took place over the course of two bright days, the first of which was given over to jousting and archery. In the first of these competitions Ser Jaime Lannister, his previously gilded armor now chipped, scarred, and battered from Tara, the siege, and the coastal war, carried all before him in a magnificent display of prowess, while Ser Lyn Corbray, Ser Willam Fell, Ser Lyle Crakehal, Ser Brynden Tully, and Ser Addam Marbrand dueled for the lower places. Eventually Ser Brynden took the second place, narrowly outpointing Ser Lyn in a series of tilts that had the crowds screaming their approval. In the archery contest the longbow competition was won by Sarra's Will, a wiry Reachman who had stayed on with the new kingdom after his knight died at Tara, while the crossbow contest was won by Silent Jorro, a laconic, gloomy-faced Myrman from Ceralia.

Throughout both that day and the next the inevitable cloud of bookmakers and odds-fixers oversaw the most profitable day of their lives as almost everyone with some spare cash laid a bet on the outcome of a joust or a bout. A rash of self-proclaimed experts on the finer points of jousting, archery, swordsmanship, and other forms of martial contest, many of whom had only the vaguest idea of what they were talking about, did their part to drive the betting with assessments of men and horses and equipment. A few ended up having to run for their lives from people who had taken their advice and lost, but the majority, either by luck or nascent judgment, found themselves making accurate predictions.

The second day was reserved for more prosaic contests. The melee, judged too dangerous to risk the lives of valuable knights in, was replaced with single combat on foot in armor with longswords. Thoros the Red made a valiant showing on behalf of Myr's native sons, advancing to the semi-finals to tumultuous applause from the freedmen. There, however, he met Ser Lyn, who took him apart in a display of sword-craft clinical enough to provoke more murmurs than applause. The lack of acclaim for Ser Lyn, however, was more than made up for by the approbation that met Ser Jamie and Eddard Stark, both of whom were only mildly less popular with the crowd than Thoros. Eddard, of course, was acclaimed as the uncompromising stalwart of Narrow Run, while if Jaime had seen less action on the coast, he had still seen some bloody skirmishes and had been a highly visible figure in the fortified towns of the coast in his black cloak and his increasingly battered gilded armor. Jaime and Eddard's bout proved to be a long and grueling war, but eventually Eddard's grim determination and ferocious in-fighting skill proved no match for Jaime's slight advantage in speed and native talent and the Black Lion eked out the winning point in a last flurry of flashing blades that made the crowds roar. By contrast the match between Lyn and Jaime for the champion's purse was almost an anticlimax, assisted by the fact that Jaime's exhaustion from his bout with Eddard slowed him down enough to make him easier prey for Lyn.

It was during this competition, and especially his last bout, that Eddard was seen to wear a brown lace, of the sort a woman might use to tie her kirtle closed, wrapped around his left rerebrace, which occasioned no small amount of comment. Jaime shrugged and observed that if the Iron Wolf had a heart after all, it didn't seem to impair his swordsmanship, Lyn narrowed his eyes and said nothing, Brynden stroked his beard speculatively and cast his eye over the ladies clustered around the royal stands, Gerion steepled his fingertips and frowned pensively, and Robert laughed and said "About damned time." In the stands a certain woman held her cloak more tightly around her than the warmth of the day might warrant and refused to let her friends see if she was wearing her spare kirtle-lace.

After the swordsmanship came one of the freedmen's events, derived from the training of the Iron Legion. Thirty men, one from each Legion company, donned the full regulation armor and kit of a Legion spearman and ran a single lap around the perimeter of the lists, cheered on by freedmen and nobility alike as they clattered along. The race was won by Tychan Breakchain of the fourth Legion company, a massively-built veteran of Tara and the siege inevitably known as "Little Tychan" by his messmates, who carried him shoulder-high to the royal stands to receive his award, which he did with some embarrassment as he was usually a withdrawn and monosyllabic individual. When Robert clapped him on the shoulder after handing over his winner's purse Tychan blushed bright red, muttered something unintelligible, and all but died standing up as his comrades carried him away for a stiff drink.

After the race came the wrestling, an event that had been added in tribute to the Ironborn who had maintained the honor of the Myrish navy. Every knight learned to wrestle as part of their training, and every peasant learned at least some rudiments of rough-and-tumble, but in the Isles wrestling was an art and the team the Ironborn entered swept the field. The final bout between Victarion Greyjoy and Dagmer Cleftjaw was even longer and more hard-fought than Jaime and Eddard's sword fight, and eventually ended in a draw at two falls each due to mutual exhaustion. Roryn Pyke placed third after a cagy, tactical match against Ser Harras Harlaw, who redeemed his poor showing in the jousting with a ferocious performance in the ring.

This cleared the stage for the last competition of all, the push-of-war. Two teams of ten men from separate companies of the Legion, each man invariably one of great size and massive strength, in full spearman's panoply locked their shields and sought to physically push each other out of the ring. This unprecedented competition proved an immediate hit with the crowd, and the victory of the team of the fifth company was met with even greater applause than Jaime and Eddard's match in the sword-fighting.

From there, those with invitations retreated to the inner courtyard of the Palace of Justice, where places for five thousand people had been set to dine at the Crown's expense. For those not invited, bread and beer had been made available from the royal stores and food vendors had been quietly urged to keep their prices low for the duration of the tournament. As a result the revelry was infectiously high-spirited, with all and sundry toasting the health of the king, the Iron Legion, the knights of the Royal Army, and the Ironborn, but most fervently toasting the end of the war and the coming of peace. The exact terms of the Peace of Pentos were still only fuzzily understood by the vast majority of the populace, but they had quickly grasped that the salient point that concerned them was the termination of hostilities. For those who did understand the terms of the peace, the indignation at their injustice was tempered by the realization of their necessity. The kingdom needed peace in order to build up to a point where it could triumph in future wars. And the news Robert had brought back of Braavos' interest in forming an alliance and the continuing benevolent neutrality of the Seven Kingdoms was extremely welcome. Already Ser Gerion and Ser Wendel Manderly were reported to be negotiating the terms not just of a loan, but of the opening of a branch of the Iron Bank in Myr.

In the Palace of Justice the mood was unabashedly effervescent. Guildsmen rubbed shoulders with knights, lords passed the salt for Legion captains, merchants chaffered over the wine and meat with priests of the Seven and the Lord of Light, the champions of the tournament were toasted and re-toasted, and at the high table Robert held court with the officers of his government and a few select members of the nobility, clergy, and burghers of the city. A coterie of musicians played a range of tunes that was already beginning to blend the chansons and ballades of Westeros with the a capella call-and-response work and field songs of the former slaves. Eventually Robert quaffed the last of his goblet, stood from his chair, walked out in front of the high table, and raised his hands for quiet, which descended gradually as the musicians wound down.

"Gentles all," Robert said, projecting his voice across the courtyard, "we thank you all for the service you have done the realm in the late war, and for the sacrifices you have made. But thanks alone are not enough, when the service and sacrifice are deserving of more. Consequently, there are men I would reward for what they have done for the realm. Captain Akhollo, stand forward!" After a moment extricating himself from his bench the tall Dothraki, his hair tied back in a simple braid and set with a quartet of tiny bells for Pentos, Tara, the siege, and Narrow Run, strode out in front of Robert and clapped his fist against his chest in a military salute that Robert returned gravely. "When we spoke yesterday, I asked you to choose a surname," Robert said. "Have you chosen one?"

Akhollo lifted his chin. "I am a free man, Your Grace," he said, only a trace of accent remaining, "and so I take the surname of Freeman."

Robert nodded as a murmur of approval swept the room. "Then let it be so," he said, his voice turning formal. "Akhollo Freeman, for the valor, leadership, and zeal you have shown in our service, we are minded to make you a knight of the realm. To be such a knight is a grave responsibility; by accepting it, you accept also that your life is no longer your own, but is at the service of the people you are set in authority over. To be a knight is to judge the quarrels of your people, to relieve their afflictions, to maintain the laws of the kingdom for their good, and to defend them to the last drop of your heart's blood in the last ditch against those who would do them harm. If you fail in any of this, you will be called to account before your peers and your gods, at peril of your mortal body and your immortal soul. Knowing all this, is it your will to accept this charge and this honor?"

Akhollo blinked, his face momentarily slack in astonishment, and then squared his shoulders. "It is, Your Grace," he said resolutely.

"Then kneel," Robert said, and as Akhollo did so he drew his sword, raised it high, and then lowered it to rest the flat of the blade on Akhollo's shoulder. "Be without fear in the face of the enemy," Robert intoned, raising the blade over Akhollo's head to lower it onto his other shoulder. "Uphold rigorously and execute faithfully the laws of the realm." Back to the other shoulder. "Defend the least of your people as you would defend yourself and your blood." Back to the other shoulder. "Act with honor and do no wrong. That is your oath." Robert raised his sword to the salute and sheathed it, then brought his hand across in a backhand blow that rocked Akhollo's head aside. "And that is so you remember it," he said. "Rise, Ser Akhollo Freeman, and let me be the first to welcome you to the brotherhood of chivalry."

As Ser Akhollo Freeman rose to his feet and Robert embraced him as a brother, the onlookers erupted with applause. All present knew they were witnessing history; never before had a Dothraki, or a former slave, received the accolade from an Andal king. As Akhollo, who had just been ordered to take a broken shackle for his coat of arms, walked back to his seat with a glazed look on his face, Robert was already calling the next man forward. In total, more than a hundred men, sixty of them former slaves, received the accolade that night, nor were they the only men honored.

Ser Vernan Irons and Ser Brynnan the Axe were made lords for their valor at Narrow Run, with lands near Ceralia. Victarion Greyjoy, with Dagmer Cleftjaw and Roryn Pyke at his side, received a charter to found a fortified town on the western coast and bring the land around it under cultivation as Lord Lieutenant of the new town and Warden of the Sea of Myrth; Robert announced that the least thanks he could give the Ironborn for the courage they had shown without even swearing fealty to him was to give them a home. Lord Erik Ironmaker's hammer, he swore, would be mounted in a place of honor in the great hall of the Palace of Justice, as a monument to his valor and leadership, and a reminder to his heirs of the worth of the Ironborn; Roryn Pyke was seen to shed tears of joy at the honor done to his old lord, though he vigorously dashed them away and clamped his jaw rigidly shut. Franlan Shipwright's post of Lord Captain of the Port was made hereditary in his line, with the right to receive a tithe of the harbor tolls. Ser Lyn Corbray was ennobled as Lord Lieutenant of Sirmium, with additional fiefs around that town, and confirmed as Warden of the South, along with his counterparts Ser Brus Buckler of Campora and the East and Ser Richard Shermer of Ceralia and the North. Ser Mychel Egen and Ser Wendel Manderly received lordships near Myr city, while more than two-score other knights took seisin of lordships in the hinterlands under the terms of the Great Charter.

At last Robert, who had needed to drain two more goblets of wine over the course of the ceremonies, cleared his throat. "Only one more matter must be settled tonight," he declared, "and it is one close to our hearts. Ser Gerion Lannister, stand forward. Lord Eddard Stark, stand forward." As the Master of Whispers and the Hand of the King stepped out from behind the high table and stood before their king, Robert held out his hand to Eddard, who reached up, undid the brooch that was his badge of office, and handed it over with a bow. Lowering his hand, Robert quelled the murmurs that swept the hall with a look. "We are of the view," he declared, "that for a king to have only one Hand is a flawed system; after all, we have two hands." A chuckle rippled through the onlookers as Robert raised his plate-sized paws in illustration. "The first of these hands is that which we present to our friends," Robert continued, his gaze seeking out the few Braavosi in the crowd. "The open hand of peace and commerce, the velvet glove of amity and brotherhood. For this, we must have one who our friends may trust to speak with our words under all conditions." Robert turned to Ser Gerion. "Ser Gerion Lannister," he said, "for the skill, integrity, and prudence you have shown in your service to us, we would name you the King's Hand, to see with our eyes, hear with our ears, and speak with our voice to our friends and allies."

Ser Gerion bent the knee. "I accept this office, Your Grace," he answered, "and pledge upon my honor and my life never to fail you and your realm."

After Ser Gerion was raised to his feet and the gold Hand's brooch affixed to the breast of his doublet, Robert raised his hands to still the applause and cheers. "The second of our hands," he said, his voice darkening, "is for those who set themselves against us. We know well, friends, that there are those in this world who would stop at naught to see this realm thrown down and destroyed, as if it had never been." A feral growl rose from the court in answer. "To offer the velvet glove of friendship to such people would be an exercise in futility, for they would see it as an admission of weakness," Robert went on. "And so to them we must offer a different hand. To our enemies we must extend, not the open hand in the velvet glove, but the clenched fist in the iron gauntlet. For such an office, we must have one who we may trust to be unswerving in his devotion to the realm and his hatred for its enemies." Robert looked Eddard in the face. "Eddard Stark," he said solemnly, "for the valor, leadership, and zeal you have shown in our service, we would name you the King's Fist, to be the shield of our realm and people and the hammer of our enemies."

Eddard knelt before his foster-brother. "By earth and water," he said, his voice fervent, "by bronze and iron, by ice and fire, I swear to be Your Grace's man in peace and in war. I shall be a watchdog to your people and a hunting wolf to your enemies. If I should fail in this office, then may my name be cursed and my body rot unburied under the empty sky." He drew the ceremonial dagger from his belt and drew it across his palm. "This I swear," he proclaimed as the blood welled, "with the gods and all here as my witness."

"So mote it be," Robert said, raising Eddard to his feet and pinning a black iron brooch in the shape of a clenched gauntlet to the front of his doublet. As Eddard and Gerion bowed and walked back to their seats to applause and cheers, Robert raised his hands again. "Thus ends the business of kingship tonight," he declared, "and my only command now is this; drink, dance, and be merry, for tonight we celebrate victory! Let all who love holy freedom rejoice, and let all who uphold accursed slavery hear our revels and tremble!"

The cheers made the walls of the courtyard reverberate as the musicians struck up a foot-stomping tune and tables and benches were dragged away to clear the floor for dancing.


	42. Chapter 42: Beyond the Songs and Stories

Any song would have had the story end there, with laughter and dancing and wild celebration. But songs, Robert reflected as his head twinged again, deliberately ignored the morning after. Of a certainty, they never mentioned hangovers.

Nor did they mention that even the morning after a victory celebration there was still business to do. So, as much as Robert wanted to stick his head under the pillow and close his eyes until the headache went away, he dragged himself out of bed and started on his daily work. Two hours of light exercise in the training yard and a gallon of water cut half and half with wine alleviated most of the headache, or at least enough for him to focus on his correspondence. After an hour of letters Ser Brynden, looking almost indecently fresh despite the fact that he had done as much dancing and drinking as anyone the night before, and Gerion and Ser Wendel Manderly, who at least looked a little pale, came by to review the state of the Royal Army and which companies they wanted to keep on duty and which they wanted to place on a reserve footing. Since that question would need Ned's input they went in search of him, talking along the way about some of the broader implications of the Peace of Pentos.

Along the way they met Lyn and Jaime, who had just finished an inconclusive series of practice bouts in the training yard and were going in for luncheon. Upon hearing of the topic of conversation and the subject of the proposed meeting they fell in, with Jaime suggesting that they might as well impose on Ned's hospitality with the promise to let him do the same to them sometime. A little further along they found Victarion, who also joined them with the claim that as long as they were discussing military matters they could talk about the navy, especially if they could send a runner for Lord Franlan.

At Ned's quarters they were more than a little surprised to find him taking luncheon with a woman. And a rather good-looking woman, at that, Robert decided with a professional's judgment; a fair-skinned brunette with strong cheekbones, a snub nose, and a ready smile, judging by the one she had been giving Ned when he and Ser Brynden walked in unannounced. As Ned and his companion rose from their chairs and began to kneel Robert forestalled them with a wave. "No need for formality, Ned, this isn't a formal occasion." He cocked an eyebrow at the woman. "Friend of yours, brother?"

"Amarya Farwynd, Your Grace," Ned said, squaring his shoulders, "my betrothed."

For a long moment Robert didn't believe his ears. "Your what?" he asked finally, shock robbing him of his manners.

"He asked me to marry him, Your Grace, and I said yes," the woman said, just as bluntly as Ned had introduced her. "This morning."

Robert's jaw dropped as he blinked rapidly and exchanged a glance with Ser Brynden, who seemed just as shocked as he did. Gerion was also looking at Ned like a country bumpkin who had just seen a two-headed calf, while Victarion was giving the woman the same look. Jaime's eyebrows had all but vanished under his bangs and he was opening and closing his mouth like a fish yanked out of the water; Wendel was similarly flabbergasted. Only Lyn had kept his countenance. When Robert finally regained the ability to speak the only thing he could think to say was, "Dammit Ned, I told you to find a leman, not a wife."

Ned shrugged. "You told me to find some pretty young thing and take her to bed, Your Grace," he said reasonably. "Those were your exact words, as I recall. You never said anything about what I should do afterwards."

Robert opened his mouth to retort, stopped to remember exactly what he had told Ned to do when he found him in that graveyard, and eventually laughed ruefully. "You're right, I didn't," he admitted. "Teach me to mind what I say."

"Farwynd," Ser Brynden said musingly. "Any relation to Lord Farwynd?"

"Not one worth mentioning," Amarya replied, her accent thickening. "My father's the proverbial poor relation, and my mother was a fisherman's daughter. I fell in love with another fisherman who answered Lord Ironmaker's call for men to find wealth and glory in Myrish service, and followed him onto the ships." Her eyes glittered a moment. "He died in the sea-fight with Lord Ironmaker, and I was alone here with barely a hand of friends this side of the Narrow Sea. So when Eddard and I found each other by the docks . . ." she shrugged, conveying a world of meaning in that simple gesture.

Robert glanced at Victarion, who shrugged. "She's a free woman, and of age," he said. "And even if her father was likely to object, he's back in the Isles; it's not like we can ask his opinion on the matter. Not that he would object to his daughter marrying the foster-brother and first captain of a king."

"When exactly did you two first meet?" Jaime asked hesitantly.

"Two days before the tournament," Ned replied.

Jaime blinked. "Are you entirely sure you've thought this all the way through?" he asked even more hesitantly. "Only three days seems a bit fast to go from first meeting to betrothal."

"Especially when one of the parties involved has no dowry and no meaningful connections to offer," Lyn added, raising his hands at Ned and Victarion's joint glare. "Merely a statement of fact, no offense intended."

Eddard tipped his head to one side and back again. "Not like I have much to offer either, except for my effects and what I've put by from my pay from when we were in Braavosi service."

"Which can be remedied," Robert replied in his most definite tone of voice. "I will not have my Fist waste away for lack of a living."

Brynden shrugged. "I don't see much here that threatens the strength of the realm," he said. "That said, it's not my decision." Wendel nodded agreement.

At Robert's raised eyebrow Gerion also shrugged. "I agree with Brynden," he said. "It's not like Your Grace can use Lord Stark's marriage as a bargaining chip, since he's not of your house and, forgive me, not the best bait to dangle in that regard anyways, for various reasons."

Robert saw Amarya shoot Gerion a venomous glare out of the corner of his eye and was more than a little cheered by it, especially since he also caught Eddard's shrug. Damnit, Ned deserved someone who would take his part. He agreed with Jaime that it seemed a bit fast, but Ned was both sensible enough not to fall for a money-grubber and, for now at least, not wealthy enough to attract one.

Besides which, Robert decided as he looked at Ned and Amarya standing by each other, he could see why Ned had chosen to strike while the iron was hot, so to speak. He had thought his future with Lyanna was secure, and then the Rapist had taken her on the eve of their fucking wedding day. The Stranger waited, as the septons put it, especially for men who lived by their swords.

_Hells take it,_ he decided, _at least one of us should get some joy out of this whole affair, for however long it lasts._ He extended his hand with a smile. "Welcome to the family, Lady Amarya," he said. "Ned, I hope you've got some good wine in here, because this calls for a drink."

XXX

The young Valeman licked his lips as the city grew on the horizon. Partly in anticipation, but mostly in nervousness; the next two or three days would be the fulcrum around which the rest of his life would pivot.

It had been a long road from the Fingers to this place. He had dreamed of rising from his family's small and hardscrabble origins to be a man equal to his foster-siblings, but time and again the door had been slammed in his face. He had been highborn enough to play with a lord's children, but not to wed one of them. When he had attempted to win the lady's hand by the strength of his arm, as the singers loved to tell, her brute of a betrothed had played with him like a cat with a mouse before tiring of the game and all but killing him. No sooner had his wounds closed enough to let him leave his bed than his erstwhile foster-father had sent him back to the Fingers with a warning to not come near his daughters again. Oh, how he had stewed over the injustice of it all as he healed, nursing his hate as much as his wounds, until it settled in his bones like molten iron in a mold.

In a song, he would doubtless have become a great villain, the sort of monster smallfolk women used to frighten their children into behaving. But then the rebellion happened, and all had changed.

Not that he had been reunited with his lady-love with all obstacles swept away; her betrothed had been crippled, not killed, and by all accounts they seemed to be comfortable enough with each other. His fingers clenched involuntarily on the rail at the thought of his Cat bearing the children of that glorified savage. At least the savage _had _been crippled, and that severely, by all accounts. He would take that much justice from the gods as a gift unlooked-for. But much else had changed, especially in these last few months after Robert the Brief had first conquered Myr, and then defended it.

In the two months since the Peace of Pentos, there had been a small flood of emigration to the new kingdom. Sellswords, freeriders, and hedge knights from across the Seven Kingdoms had marched to the ports of eastern Westeros to seek fame and fortune, many of them clubbing together and pooling their funds to buy their passage. Merchants followed them just as assiduously, either to reestablish fortunes and contacts destroyed in the Sack of Myr or else seeking out whatever new markets might be had. Begging brothers and itinerant septons were also seeking passage across the Narrow Sea, hoping to spread the worship of the Faith. Even some women were making the crossing; five of them were on this very ship. Two were the daughters of landed knights hoping to be able to boast of having a lord for a good-son, while the other three were the daughters of wealthy merchants hoping to marry into at least the chivalry, if not the nobility, on the strength of their purses.

If an iron-headed sellsword could rise to lordship in King Robert's service, the Valeman had vowed, then so could he. What, did he not have the finest hand and the sharpest mind in the Vale? Had he not learned how to stretch the tiny rents and revenues of his familial lands to their greatest extent? He had no talent for sword-play, but give him a paper full of numbers and he could make them dance with a scrawl of his quill. And in Myr, he would not have to face the same barred doors that had forestalled his rise in Westeros.

So he had swallowed his pride, stifled his hatred for at least a little while, and written a letter. Upon receiving the prayed-for answer, he had sold his family's lands and tower on the Fingers, made his way down to Gulltown, and taken a steerage berth on the next ship bound for Myr. All he owned in the wide world he now carried on his person, none of it more precious than the letter that even now was tucked in his doublet. Eddard Stark's influence in the court of Myr might be reduced, but he was still King Robert's foster-brother. If someone came to him bearing a letter of recommendation signed by his brother and good-sister, then much could be made possible. And if Stark was unamenable, then surely the Blackfish would remember the boy who had come to him for advice about his childhood troubles. If nothing else, the Royal Army would surely need a good clerk.

Perhaps he couldn't forge a kingdom for himself by the strength of his arms, but he could still leave his mark on the Kingdom of Myr. Petyr Baelish smiled in anticipation as the stink of Myr's harbor began to fill his nostrils. It smelled like opportunity.


	43. Chapter 43: Beyond the Seas

The High Septon put down the last page of Jaspar's report and gently pinched the bridge of his nose against the headache he could feel building behind his eyeballs. _Damn it, nephew,_ he thought wearily. _Was it too much to ask for you to do your job properly?_

"I told you that sending Jaspar was a bad idea," Most Devout Hugar said bluntly. Only three or four people in the world could speak so boldly to the High Septon; Hugar got away with it by being the former archsepton of the Westerlands. Any man who could execute the requirements of that office while maintaining such good relations with Tywin Lannister as to confirm his children was not someone to take lightly. Especially when his liver was making him short-tempered.

Most Devout Payten waggled his hand from side to side. "Not as bad as all that, brother," he qualified. "Jaspar did do what he was ordered to do and what he could reasonably accomplish, given the circumstances."

"And tip our hand to the heretic while he was at it," Hugar spat disgustedly. He was no friend to Payten, who had been the senior septon at Stoney Sept's seminary and retained an academic's taste for finely reasoned argument. "Once he had the evidence he should have either acted, or kept his mouth shut until further instructions. As it was, the knight refused him, and then had the gall to spill the beans."

"It may be," said Most Devout Mateo, "that the attempt to draw Ser Leofric into the plan was the weak reed that made the project collapse. If Jaspar's mission had been strictly investigatory, with no view towards possible arrest and extradition, then secrecy would have been maintained."

The High Septon concealed his anger; he had long suspected Mateo of angling for the crystal crown and that little speech only added to the evidence, in his mind. The former archsepton of Dorne was as ambitious as any child of that desert realm, and all the more dangerous for having been civilized. _Not while I draw breath, old man._ "Does anyone truly believe that I did not act as seemed best at the time?" he asked in his most reasonable tone of voice. "Jaspar may have proved inept, but we all had every reason to expect great things of him from his record at seminary, and Ser Leofric was well-known to be a good son of the Faith. Will any here deny this?"

Put like that, even Hugar and Mateo had to shake their heads; to do otherwise would have meant directly challenging the High Septon's fitness to lead the Faithful, and neither of them was powerful enough to take that step. Nor would they be, while Tywin Lannister remained content to rest on his laurels and Dorne was still recovering from the Red Viper Rebellion. "In any case," the High Septon continued, "Jaspar did an admirable job of compiling the evidence against Jonothor." He tapped the papers in front of him, a fair copy of which rested before every member of the Most Devout present in a testament to the number of scribes the Great Sept could bring to bear and the fact that each of the Most Devout could read. And very well, at that; Mateo, for one, wrote devotional poetry not just in Common Tongue and the High Andalic that was the official language of the Faith, but in Rhoynish. He thought it was a closely guarded secret, but the High Septon had suborned his secretary some time ago. "Does anyone doubt that we have sufficient evidence before us to convict Jonothor of heresy?"

Again, there were only shaking heads. "His commission of non-Faithful dead to the care of the Seven would be evidence enough," said Payten, "but his other offenses compound his guilt. To suffer a cleric of R'hllor to preach to the Faithful!"

"Personally, I find his last words to Jaspar to be most interesting," said Most Devout Donnal. "Firstly, his claim to have resurrected the Faith Militant. Leaving aside the fact that it provides that much more rope to hang him with, can any of us deny that his words have a kernel of truth in them?"

Payten shook his head. "The Faith Militant can only be composed of the Faithful," he said pedantically. "To claim otherwise is just as heretical as his primary offense."

Most Devout Justan flipped through the pages before him. "For my part, I find his argument interesting, as Donnal said," he replied. "Even if nine in ten of this 'Faith Militant', so called, are not of the Faith, the fact remains that they fight under the command of Faithful knights, sworn to a Faithful king, in a cause the Seven approve of. It is not the Swords and Stars reborn, but it is a step further in that direction than any that has been taken since the time of the Conciliator."

The other Most Devout glanced at each other. Donnal and Justan both came from the Snowy Sept, which had an ambiguous reputation in the Faith. On the one hand, it was lauded for its defense and propagation of the Faith in the teeth of one of the last great strongholds of paganism in Westeros; it was for this reason that at least one or two of the Most Devout tended to be veterans of the place. On the other hand, there was always the sneaking suspicion that the Northern Faith was not quite as doctrinally or as practically pure as it should be. It was a fair way from the supervision of any other sept, after all, with potentially unfriendly pagans on every side. That sort of thing was almost bound to lead to compromise; or corruption, if you weren't feeling charitable.

Not that anyone had ever been able to prove anything. "You said firstly," Payten said, "which implies that there is at least one other reason. If you would enlighten us?"

"That Jonothor claimed to have been under orders to not return here to confront us," Donnal said, leaning forward in his chair. "And also that he specifically advised that we send someone who would not incur the wrath of at least Eddard Stark. I submit, friends, that we must consider not only how to deal with Jonothor, but how to deal with the Kingdom of Myr if they persist in offering him sanctuary in defiance of His Holiness."

"They would not dare," Hugar claimed. "Not when we can excommunicate everyone who follows the heretic and place the kingdom under interdict."

"The last time someone told Robert Baratheon he couldn't do something, he abdicated the Iron Throne and did it anyway," Justan replied. "I agree with Donnal on this one, friends. If we wish to pursue this matter, then we must plan for _all_ the potential outcomes."

Silence fell around the table. It had been long and long since the Faith was seriously threatened with schism; the last such scare, two hundred years before the Conquest, had been resolved by the Council of Stoney Sept, which had effectively set the seal on almost half a millennium's steady codification of the Faith's doctrines and practices across the boundaries of the individual kingdoms. But the old enmities that had previously existed in the Faith had been bloody, and the chronicles of the old wars of Faithful against Faithful made for chilling reading.

"In that case," Septon Mateo said slowly, "it may be best to tread softly on this matter for the moment. Excommunicate Jonothor, by all means, but do not extend the punishment to those who associate with him. Simply remind them of their duty as sons of the Faith to heed the commands of His Holiness."

Septon Koryn leaned forward. "And if they refuse to denounce him?" he asked. "I am told that the vast majority of the Faithful of Myr are Essosi; former slaves whom Jonothor converted himself. That is not a bond easily broken."

The High Septon raised a finger. "Then we employ other means of exerting pressure," he replied. "We publicize the fact of Jonothor's heresy, and warn the Faithful that to serve the realm that gives him shelter imperils their souls as abettors of heresy. We suggest to His Grace that it would be a godly deed to restrain or even forbid commerce and emigration to Myr until Jonothor is delivered to us for trial. For our own dealings with the Kingdom of Myr," he spread his hands. "Complete silence. Refuse even to speak to them until they deliver Jonothor to the Great Sept in chains. We do not preach in favor of their crusade, which is in fact illegal since we have not declared it ourselves, we do not send more septons to minister to the Faithful, we do not fund the construction of septries or motherhouses in the Kingdom of Myr, we do not advance them loans from our revenues, we do not do anything."

Koryn gestured assent as a murmur of agreement swept around the table; the Reachman had been elevated to the Most Devout as a reward for long service at the Starry Sept, rather than because he had any ambitions to high office, and he tended to indecision in the absence of someone else presenting a plan.

"All of which," Payten said reflectively, "may be unnecessary." At the inquiring looks he went on. "I was one of Jonothor's teachers at seminary, and unless he's changed more than most men do, he'll be much as he was then; stiff as a short plank and about as capable of compromise. Let him try and change Robert Baratheon from a wine-bibbing lecher to an upright and morally correct son of the Faith for a few months and Robert will send him to us himself, if only to have done with the lectures."

"You think Jonothor will truly bite the hand that shields him?" Donnal asked, his voice skeptical. "I've never met the man, but I have heard that he's quite intelligent."

Payten shook his head. "Jonothor can no more condone moral laxness than he can flap his arms and fly," he said confidently. "The number of times he dragged his fellow students out of the Peach by the scruff of the neck, haranguing them all the way up to the seminary doors . . ." He shook his head with a reminiscent smile on his face. "One time," he went on, a chuckle entering his voice, "the man went after a trio of students and managed to drag them _all_ back up the seminary, with one in each hand and driving the third before him with kicks to the posterior, berating them at full volume about the sin of lust the whole while . . ." Payten dissolved into chortles at the evidently happy memory, with a few of the other Most Devout chuckling along at the mental image thus inspired. "No," Payten said, wiping away tears as he finally got himself under control. "He'll force Robert to behave according to the _Seven-Pointed Star_ or break himself in the attempt."

The High Septon nodded. "Doubtless," he said, "but nonetheless we shall proceed with our other means of exerting pressure on the Kingdom of Myr. The gods help best those who help themselves, after all." The platitude won a wave of nods; _no one _knew that better than the Faith. The gods had their plans for each living soul and worked their will in the world as they pleased, but sometimes they needed a little help here and there.

XXX

Donys Rahtheon was not a man of his hands, but of his mind.

To be sure he had done manual work in the past, rebuilding his family's fortunes from the genteel poverty that his father and grandfather had wastreled them into, but that had been in the early days of his manhood, when it had been necessary to go along on the ships himself to make sure the captains didn't defraud them. Those had been hard days and harder nights, sleeping with one hand on a sheathed dagger under the pillow in case this was the night that some captain who had grown too used to taking more than his share tried to knock him over the head and drop him overboard with a length of chain around his ankles. Thankfully, he had not needed to do such things since the year before he married; after that, he had had people to do that for him, leaving him free to pursue his true calling.

For Donys Rahtheon was a man who could take vastly disparate pieces of information, connect them to each other, and draw the lines that made a picture. From his study in Myr he had been able to take the news that the price of Pentoshi wheat had gone up, a rumor of heavy rains and flooding along the Trident, and a report that the Tyrells were having difficulty with their bannermen again, and come to the conclusion that an enterprising man with connections to the farms of the hinterlands could make a killing selling grain to Braavos that year. He had done so on two memorable occasions, both of which had been immensely profitable years with the added attraction of being able to gouge the hated and feared Braavosi.

If he was working from the upper-floor office of a warehouse on the Volantene waterfront instead of a manse in the magister's quarter of Myr, these days, and if his circle of agents, contacts, and friends-of-friends was somewhat reduced from its previous expanse, the rules and methods of the game hadn't changed. The stakes, though, those had changed even more dramatically than his circumstances.

By the calculus of fate and availability, he had become the treasurer, quartermaster, purser, and spymaster to House Targaryen-in-exile. It was his agents that provided them with information, his accounts and monies that fed and clothed and housed them, and his ships that carried the commerce that was their lifeblood. He had no skill with a sword and he could not command an army, but he could certainly keep everyone out of penury, especially since he was essentially left to do what he did best.

That was part of the deal that he, Ser Arthur, and Ser Barristan had come to, once they had all recovered from the shock of Marq Grafton's and . . . _her_ (Donys firmly pushed the memory of his daughter's name out of his mind; he had no daughter, now) betrayal. Ser Barristan had taken responsibility for Viserys and Visenya's personal protection, Ser Arthur had taken command of the exiles (the Company of the Dragon, as they called themselves now), and Donys had taken charge of everything else. Ser Gyles Rambton, murdered by the deserters along with a dozen others from the fleet who had refused to be forsworn, had been buried with the honors due to brave men. Viserys' education had been taken in hand, with Ser Barristan seeing to the boy's martial training and Donys finding a half-maester for his other studies. Some hurried negotiations had seen the Company taken on a long-term contract with the Triarchs, with the stipulations that they be allowed to recruit locally to fill their ranks and that Donys' warehouses and other properties within the city be considered extraterritorial possessions of House Targaryen. Shortly afterward, their ranks padded out with the sweepings of the Volantene gaols and a few freeborn citizens desperate or mad enough to sign on, the Company had been sent east with orders to devastate the western lands of Matarys; evidently that city had done something to earn the ire of the Triarchs.

That, Donys reflected, had been quite foolish of them. Volantis was easily the strongest of the Free Cities on land, and the only one besides Braavos that had an entrenched martial tradition. The tigers of Volantis were the nearest equivalent Essos had to Westerosi knights, although they historically fought as charioteers or infantrymen, rather than as armored lancers. Under ordinary circumstances, that adherence to the martial traditions of the Freehold had been a handicap, being seen as an anachronism that wasn't quite gentlemanly, but these were hardly ordinary times. The fall of Myr to the Sunset Company and the subsequent rise of the Kingdom of Myr had given the tigers their finest opportunity since the Century of Blood; the study of war was not some outdated anachronism, anymore, but a dire necessity. The wolves were on their doorstep, their orators cried, and if they did not take arms and strike, remembering the ways of their ancestors who of old had conquered Essos, then the fate of Myr would befall Volantis.

The resulting fervor had infected even the elephants; predictably so, in Donys' opinion. An elephant might be bulky, slow, and easy-going, but they were as dangerous as tigers were; he had once seen an elephant goaded beyond endurance turn its mahout into a red smear. The Kingdom of Myr hadn't struck at Volantis directly, yet, but the mere fact of their existence could not be tolerated. Not when Volantis' slaves outnumbered its citizens by five to one, and Robert Baratheon had sworn to wage war without mercy on slavery.

Already two plots by the slaves to revolt that Donys knew of had been uncovered and crushed with ruthless butchery, those ringleaders taken alive being publicly executed in inventively gruesome ways and their heads mounted on pikes along the Long Bridge. The Red Temple, he knew, was closely watched by Triarchal spies, in answer to which the Fiery Hand seemed to be on edge and even more zealous in their duties than they normally were. At least four of the tiger cloaks' officers had been posted to the frontier ahead of the regular schedule of rotations. Donys could read the signs as if they were writ in letters of fire; Volantis was standing on the lip of the volcano.

Fortunately, the Triarchs appeared to have come to the same conclusion, and were taking appropriate measures. The Golden Company had also been retained on a generous long-term contract, as had several lesser companies. The tigers had started a citizen's militia, with a company based in each ward of the city, and Triarchal agents had been dispatched to Astapor to buy as many Unsullied as the Good Masters would sell. Every blacksmith in the city who could forge weapons was now required to forge a set number of spear-heads and sword-blades every month, depending on the size of their shop, to be bought at a fixed price by the city to arm their new forces.

Donys smiled thinly. The Kingdom of Myr, he judged, was almost certainly biting off rather more than it could chew. Their victory at Narrow Run, and the treachery that had ensured it, would make them enemies of the Dothraki nation. Tyrosh and Lys were rearming themselves to meet the threat that had so suddenly arisen. But most of all, the First Daughter of Valyria was rousing itself to anger. Even if Viserys never again set foot in Westeros, a fate that seemed increasingly likely to Donys, though he never said so where Ser Arthur could hear him, the odds that he would be able to take revenge on Robert and Eddard for his family's exile and his brother's death were improving by the day. Especially since Viserys was proving himself to be a determined student; he would not, he had explained with a child's seriousness, allow his sister Visenya to come to harm at _anyone's_ hands, especially not those of Robert Dragonsbane and his dog. The fact that he had just turned ten and barely came up to a grown man's elbow had not seemed to matter to him.

Donys' smile broadened as he contemplated the future. From the darkness of three months ago, it seemed considerably brighter.

XXX

_To My Lord Tywin Lannister, health, prosperity, and the blessings of the gods._

_The situation in the city remains unchanged from my previous letter. The prosperity engendered by the end of the late war has silenced any dissent against the king, so that the only unrest that remains is the muttering of malcontents and broken men who can never be satisfied. The retraining of the royal fleet proceeds apace; Lord Redwyne reports that the whole fleet should be ready to go on campaign within a month of the new year. The news from Dorne is uniformly good; with the recent hounding into exile of Ser Garin Uller, the last leader of the rebel-brigands of any name, Princess-Regent Mellario, the other members of the regency council, and the Royal Order of the Sun seem to have matters well in hand._

_I have the pleasure to report that Her Grace your daughter is again increasing, and swears that she will present another son to His Grace. Aside from the usual discomforts attendant upon such a condition she seems untroubled by it, and given her previous success in this field and the good health she continues in I believe that she has but little to fear from a second confinement. I shall, of course, undertake every effort to ensure a happy ending for all concerned. Your grandson Prince Lyonel is a vigorous child, already toddling and babbling; his recent learning of the word 'no' was cause for much consternation among his nurses._

_His Grace the king also continues in good health and vigor, and his reign continues to wax mightily. The success of the Peace of Pentos and the prosperity it has engendered has strengthened his rule and won him the hearts of the people of this city to an extent that I have not seen since My Lord was Hand. He has directed me to draw up plans for the extension of the crownroads through the Riverlands and the Stormlands and the replacement of the Dragonpit with a Guildhall and public garden, which last has already proven such a popular notion with the aldermen and burghers of the city that they have voted to contribute funds toward the cost of the endeavor._

_The only difficulty currently facing their Graces is the new lady-in-waiting; Lady Praela has a sharp tongue and is not afraid to use it on anyone who crosses her. Her Grace your daughter, for her part, returns word for word with a will, especially when her condition makes her short of temper. His Grace has commanded them to be civil to each other in his presence and they obey, but when he leaves the room the war is resumed as fervently as ever. I have given instructions that Lady Praela be watched most carefully to ensure that she does not go beyond words to some more drastic means and advised your daughter not to accept food or drink from her, to which she replied with no small amount of acerbity that she would do as she pleased, damn my eyes. I fear that I spoke to her while her pregnancy was making her dyspeptic. My vigilance in this matter shall, of course, continue unflaggingly._

_As far as His Grace's thoughts on any future contentions in the Disputed Lands and the southern Narrow Sea are concerned, I have no new information. That said, His Grace spends much time closeted with Lord Redwyne and has requested that I provide an accurate and up-to-date map of the Stepstones as soon as I may. I must therefore conclude that His Grace intends to take a hand in any future conflict in that quarter of the world, presumably in alliance with the Braavosi. I shall provide more information as it is disclosed to me._

_I remain, in the meantime, My Lord's most humble and obedient servant,_

_Pycelle, Grand Maester._


	44. Chapter 44: Wars Are Coming

_While the slaver cities were arming themselves, the small council of the Kingdom of Myr was taking stock of their own situation. On the one hand, this situation was relatively sound; in addition to the Royal Army and the Royal Navy, the Kingdom could reasonably expect Braavos and the Seven Kingdoms to come to their aid if Lys or Tyrosh attacked first. Braavos' land forces were still stretched covering Braavos and Pentos, supporting Norvos against a newly belligerent Qohor, and protecting Braavosi ships all around the world, but the Braavosian fleet was the strongest in the Narrow Sea, if not the world. And what the Braavosi potentially lacked in soldiers could be more than made up for by the forces of the Seven Kingdoms, for King Stannis had not confined his pioneering improvements solely to Westeros' infrastructure._

_On the other hand, the situation that the Kingdom of Myr faced was dire. Although their northern frontier was relatively secure thanks to the Braavosi alliance, they were otherwise surrounded by enemies, who if they managed to coordinate their attacks could submerge them beneath a tide of foes. Fortunately, the Kingdom of Myr only really had to face two enemies at once, instead of three or four; distance and the realities of logistics largely prevented Volantis from quickly intervening in an overland war, while the disunity of the Dothraki and the distance between Myr and the Dothraki Sea meant that the Dothraki would only pose an intermittent threat, if a serious one._

_This, however, still left the Kingdom of Myr facing two-to-one odds, for late in 286 Tyrosh and Lys signed a treaty committing themselves to a military alliance against the Kingdom of Myr under any and all circumstances. Faced with this problem, the Kingdom of Myr had two potential solutions; stand on the defensive in the next war, or attack. The defensive option was quickly discarded; the Kingdom of Myr didn't have the resources to win a long war of attrition. It being decided to attack, the target of the attack was quickly chosen as Tyrosh; between that city and Lys, Tyrosh was closer, more immediately threatening, and had incurred more grudges on the part of the Kingdom of Myr thanks to their harboring of the Myrish exiles and their leading role in the First Slave War._

_With the target of the offensive chosen, the council turned to discussing ways and means . . ._

Eddard frowned at the map that had been hung on the wall of the small council chamber. "The way I read that map," he said slowly, "Tyrosh has five major towns that we have to reduce. Of those, the toughest nuts to crack will be these ones." He traced a finger over Lissus, Aesica, and Brivas. "The fact that they're seaport towns means that the Tyroshi will be able to rush in reinforcements and supplies without too much difficulty." He turned to Victarion. "Unless the Royal Fleet can blockade them?"

Victarion made a face. "Not easily," he admitted. "Once the new ships are built and their crews trained, we should be able to blockade one of those ports, but not two and certainly not all three. We will be able to launch raids which should interdict at least some ships, but we won't be able to close off more than one port completely at any one time."

Eddard nodded. "So we'll have to hold off on attack those three towns for the moment, and focus on the other two." He pointed towards the first one, a sennight's march west of the borderlands. "Of those, Alalia is the one we'll have to take first, if only because it's closer to the border. Sinuessa's on it's far side, and we can't risk leaving a major fortified town in our rear."

Gerion nodded. "And the Tyroshi know it," he said. "The Tyroshi Conclave has voted funds to improve the fortifications and increase the garrison there, and the Archon has ordered that non-essential slaves be sent out of the town, in order to make it easier to police them. Judging from the information I have, we should expect to face at least a thousand soldiers, both Tyroshi regulars and sellswords, and maybe twice as many militia. That, in addition to any forces we drive into the town and the Tyroshi field army."

"Against which," Brynden said, tapping the sheaf of papers before him, "we can muster maybe ten companies of the Legion and four companies of cavalry for an attack into Tyroshi territory, assuming at least eight days' notice."

There were nods around the table. The system on which the Royal Army had been organized was twofold. Firstly, there were the standing forces, one Legion company and one cavalry company stationed in Myr and an equal force in the three major towns; these would be full-time warriors drawing monthly pay from the royal treasury. The rest of the Iron Legion would spend the majority of their time either farming or practicing a trade and assembling to train as a full company for eight days a month and three full sennights a year in order to keep their skills sharp; each man was expected to train with their personal weapons on their own time. The cavalry companies, being composed of the nobility and chivalry of the realm and their principal henchmen, were expected to assemble and train as a full company for at least one full sennight every month in addition to their individual training. Both Legion men and cavalrymen were expected to find their own keep when they weren't training or on Royal service, and in order to draw their monthly training stipend they had to attend and complete their required training to the satisfaction of the royal inspectors. It was a setup designed to maintain a sizable and well-trained reserve while balancing the cost to the treasury against the thousand and one other commitments that _absolutely needed_ to be funded, but the downside was that the number of soldiers that could be immediately put in the field in case of emergency was limited. In order to assemble an army large enough to go a-conquering, advance notice was required in order to allow the reserve companies to assemble and march to the designated muster point.

"How large can we expect the Tyroshi field army to be?" Eddard asked.

Gerion flipped through his notes for a brief moment. "Perhaps two thousand sellsword cavalry and ten thousand infantry, most of which will be men of the Archon's new militia," he answered. "More or less our numbers."

Each company of the Iron Legion was a thousand strong, with three spearmen for every crossbowman. Each cavalry company was set at a hundred lances, with each lance consisting of a knight or man-at-arms, his squire, a valet who could serve as a heavy infantryman, an archer, and a page; the formula had originated in either the Reach or the Vale, depending on who you asked, several hundred years before the Conquest and had continued in use with only minor changes ever since.

"These new militia, will they be able to stand against us?" Victarion asked, clearly skeptical. "These are tradesmen and idle aristos for the most part, I understand, not warriors."

Gerion shrugged. "The Myrish militiamen fought well enough," he pointed out," and quite a few of the Myrish exiles, I am told, have taken service in the Tyroshi militia. As for the Tyroshi themselves," he spread his hands. "Only the worst of men will not fight to the death to protect his home and his family and the temples of his gods. The sellswords may be easy pickings or not, as the case may be, but we should expect the Tyroshi infantry to fight hard, if not well."

"Especially given that a fair proportion of them will be regular soldiers, men who have been in harness for years already," Brynden added. "According to Ser Lyn's reports from the Great Raid and the reports from the coastal fighting they're stubborn enough."

Victarion gestured concession as Eddard sat back down in his chair. "Then we will simply have to be better," the King's Fist said definitively. "Ser Brynden and I have already worked out a training program that should put us comfortably ahead of both Tyrosh and Lys in military proficiency, both in battle and on the march." Wendel winced; training was expensive, both in pay to the men doing the training and in the equipment that they inevitably broke or wore out in the process. Eddard drove on. "Another of the deciding factors will be speed; we will need to defeat the Tyroshi quickly in order to prevent the Lyseni from coming to their aid. Ser Brynden, how fast can we have our attacking force over the border under normal conditions?"

Brynden looked up at the ceiling, the fingers of his left hand twitching as he calculated. "Eight days to complete the call-up of the necessary units," he said finally, "and then seventeen days afterward to march from here to the border at best speed, picking up units along the way. Allowing a margin for unforeseen obstacles," he made a face, "twenty to twenty-five days."

The men around the table grimaced. It was a simple fact that armies were _slow_, especially when the fastest way to transport the necessary supplies in the amounts required was by horse or ox-drawn wagon; such vehicles did well to make ten miles a day. But in a contest where victory and defeat would be decided in a matter of days, that lack of speed was dangerous.

"Ned, work with Ser Brynden to find ways to reduce that time," Robert said. "Wendel, join in with them to work out which options can be done best at a minimum of cost. Anything else today?" At the round of negatives, Robert nodded. "Very well then, meeting adjourned. Ned, remain a moment." As the other small council members filed out Robert sipped from the mug of smallbeer before him and looked over his foster-brother. "All going well with your wife, Ned?"

"Very much so, Your Grace," Eddard said, smiling in unconscious reminiscence at how he and Amarya had passed the previous evening and part of that morning. "Not just in bed, either," he continued, ignoring Robert's snickers. "She's done well at taking on a lady's duties, even if my household is a small one still." Not that it would stay small for long; Eddard had let the word out two days ago that he was looking for new retainers and already his steward was being flooded with men putting their names forward. It seemed that, far from being warned off by the stories of Narrow Run, the fighting men of the kingdom were considering Eddard's retinue to be a post of high honor to be hotly sought after. And not just among Northmen, but the freedmen as well; Ser Akhollo had already sent his regrets that his post as a Legion captain prevented him from taking service with a lord's household and hinting broadly that if Eddard offered him a place he would resign his commission.

"Good, good," Robert said absently, fiddling with his mug while Eddard cocked an eyebrow; he had known Robert since they were both only ten years of age and in all that time he had only seen him hesitate once or twice. "If I might ask, how did you go about asking her to marry you?" he said finally.

Eddard, taken aback, shrugged. "I just asked her," he replied. "We were in bed, we had just finished, well," he resolutely ignored Robert's chuckle, "and I was looking at her and thinking that of all the women in the world this was the only one I could see myself spending the rest of my days with and the question just slipped out." His mouth quirked in a half-smile. "Fortunately she said yes, or I'd have felt bloody silly." As Robert guffawed he cocked an eyebrow. "Out of curiosity, why do you ask?"

Robert sobered immediately. "Alaesa's pregnant," he said. "I'm considering asking her to marry me."

Eddard sat back, stunned. "I see," he said finally. Then, hesitantly, "Robert, are you looking for my advice as your foster-brother or as your Fist?"

Robert shrugged. "Either," he said. "Both, if you want."

Eddard nodded. "As your foster-brother, then," he said, "I say do so and best of luck to you. I doubt Lyanna would want you to let all your children be bastards." Robert barked a laugh and gestured agreement. "As your Fist, on the other hand," Eddard went on, "I would ask you to consider whether marrying Alaesa is the best thing you can do to strengthen your kingdom. Marrying her would certainly bind the freedmen to us with bands of iron, but we have their loyalty already and until we conquer Tyrosh and Lys, we will not be acquiring more except by natural increase." Left unspoken was the assumption that they _would _conquer Tyrosh and Lys, but Robert already knew his foster-brother's views on the necessity of the conquest of the slaver cities. "Marrying a lady from the Seven Kingdoms, on the other hand," Eddard plowed on, "or a lady of Braavos, would gain us the strength of her House and any alliances they might have, in addition to allowing for an heir that might find more favor among the Andal nobility."

The two foster-brothers exchanged a look. The loyalty of the nobility, both Andal and Essosi, to Robert, personally, was beyond question. How loyal they would be to his heir was potentially open to debate; the Essosi nobility would almost certainly accept Robert's heir under any circumstances barring the egregious, but the Andal nobility might look askance on an heir whose mother had been born a slave. That potential dissatisfaction might or might not prove the root of disloyalty, but wisdom militated against taking that chance.

Especially since, given that Robert would almost certainly be leading the attack into Tyrosh when the next war came, there was at least some chance that he would die. Robert was one of the mightiest warriors alive, but even the Dragonknight had met his match eventually. And crossbow bolts didn't care how good you were if they managed to get through your armor. Knights tended towards a certain fatalism for that very reason. If Robert were to die and leave behind an underage heir who wasn't entirely accepted by the nobility and wouldn't have the chance to prove himself for some years . . .

"Woe to thee, o land, when thy king is a child," Robert said, to which Eddard nodded; the quote was from the Book of the Crone, but the faith of the old gods had a similar saying. "I will think on this," Robert went on, "and ask Gerion's counsel as well. Thank you, Ned."

XXX

Maester Gordon slapped the imaginary dust of his hands and nodded. "Not bad," he said approvingly. "Not half bad at all."

Beside him Lord Captain of the Port Franlan Shipwright added his own nod. The object of their approval was the towers that sat at the ends of the two moles protecting Myr harbor. The original towers, glorified guardhouses really, had been worn down by the continuous assault of wind and wave, combined with official neglect; during the old wars the Quarrelsome Daughters had almost never attacked each other directly. And even if they had, their fleets would have seen off any such attack handily enough, so there had been no incentive to heavily fortify their harbors.

The Kingdom of Myr, however, couldn't take that risk. Their fleet had maintained its honor in the war, but even protecting Myr city had taken almost all of their ships. Moreover, the Royal Fleet was actually shrinking; almost a sixth of the Ironborn were sailing back to the Isles to either inherit or enjoy their newfound wealth, most notably Harras Harlaw. So, it had been decided by the small council that each port in the Kingdom would be required to be able to defend itself, thereby freeing up the Fleet to contest the seas. In Myr city, that defense had taken the form of two heavy springalds in each of the two towers on the landward ends of the harbor moles and the two new towers. These towers, Tygett's Tower to the west and Leofric's Tower to the east, were horseshoe-shaped constructions of stone some ten feet tall with walls five feet thick, and housed three heavy springalds on their single level of battlements, their handlers, and a score of crossbowmen each. The causeways atop the moles running out to them had been reinforced with an uncrenellated wall as tall as a man facing the sea, and plans were in hand to add a harbor chain to the setup when the funds were available.

Which, with any luck at all, would be soon, given the reason why so much effort had been spent on fortifying the harbor. With the cessation of the war, trade had come flooding into Myr like a tidal wave, so that the harbor was filled with ships. Braavos, King's Landing, Gulltown, Planky Town, White Harbor, Saltpans, Maidenpool, and Oldtown all seemed to have an insatiable appetite for Myrish glassware, carpets, and lace, and the Glassblower's Guild and the Weaver's Guild, now composed entirely of freedmen working for wages, had risen to the challenge magnificently. As the head of the Weaver's Guild had explained, there was a world of difference between being forced to work for the profit of people who didn't deserve your labor, and working for your own profit at a trade that you could take pride in. The Crossbowmaker's Guild had also seen business pick up; Stannis of Westeros had ordered a hundred crossbows as a trial, with the option to expand the order to as many as five thousand. A similar order from Braavos had driven the Crossbowmaker's Guild to expand its workforce by almost half again in order to meet the foreign orders while keeping up with domestic demand. The Ironborn, those that could be spared from training the freedmen who had volunteered for the Royal Fleet and the construction of the new town of Ironhold down the western coast, were making a pretty penny both from carrying cargos in their own holds and by contracting out as escorts; the end of the war hadn't put a stop to piracy

All of this was fueled by the expansion of the Iron Bank into Myr. Vito Nestoris, who had recently been declared the Iron Bank's agent-in-residence for Myr, had recently drawn up an instrument with Ser Wendel Manderly whereby the Iron Bank had been declared the Kingdom of Myr's lender of last resort; that document, which had amounted to the Iron Bank underwriting the exchequer of the Kingdom of Myr, had made previously skeptical traders, moneylenders, and other merchants much more confident that the Myrish guilds would be able to deliver the goods. The fact that the Iron Bank had explicitly guaranteed only the royal government and not the guilds was, it was widely agreed, not strictly relevant. Without the guilds driving the flow of money, the royal government would quickly become insolvent, the surplus of the produce grown in the hinterland would rot in the fields for lack of paying customers in the city and abroad, and the whole economy of the kingdom would grind to a halt. If the guilds failed, then the royal government would be all but forced to prop them up. And their ability to do that had just been guaranteed by the Iron Bank.

"I mislike this dependence on the Braavosi," grumbled Franlan, who had evidently been following Gordon's train of thought. "We saw much of them in Myr before the siege, as traders, and their First Law did not seem to prevent their making a profit off the work of slaves, so long as those slaves were in a foreign land." He glowered at an otherwise inoffensive Braavosi ship in the act of exiting the harbor. "But I suppose that we must work with the tools that come to our hands."

"And the Braavosi have the potential to be a very fine tool indeed," Gordon agreed. "We haven't had to ask them for a loan yet, or so I hear, so that source of income should be ready to hand if we need it." He made a face. "Which we almost certainly will, if we are to complete the fortification program in a timely fashion." Myr city wasn't the only place that required improvements to its defensive capabilities. Every town on the coast was required by the Crown to have a stone wall and at least two towers, one overlooking the main gate and the other protecting the harbor mouth, if they had one. Every village was required to have a wall encircling the main cluster of homes and shops. The three main towns of Ceralia, Sirmium, and Campora were already walled, so the only requirement that had been laid on them was to 'make any repairs or improvements that the King's Fist shall deem necessary and proper.'

All of this had to be paid for with a river of gold. Fortifications were _expensive_, enough so that the erecting of castles was beyond the reach even of most lords. As a result, when Gordon had been given the task of designing the fortified places of the realm, he had opted for simplicity. A ditch ten feet deep would provide a significant obstacle for a formed body of attackers, especially when the earth that had been excavated to form the ditch was piled up along the inner perimeter of that ditch to form a rampart. Where stone was unavailable or prohibitively expensive, a palisade of stakes would provide the parapet, and the towers would also be made out of rammed earth and wood.

Even with these cost-saving measures, however, the fortification of the realm would take up a significant portion of the Crown's revenue, most of which would come from the various tolls and fees generated by Myr's harbor. Hence the importance placed on protecting that vital district. He had seen his father work on enough large and complicated projects to know that some damned thing _always _went wrong, or took too long, or cost more than advertised, or broke on first use and needed replacing at the last moment, invariably requiring more money to correct the problem. And for now, the biggest money maker available to the realm was Myr harbor.

"You'll be off down the coast next?" Franlan asked, raising an eyebrow.

Gordon nodded. "First to Ironhold, to help Lord Greyjoy get things in proper order," he replied. "Then down the coast to Celsa, Navio, and Cillium to make sure they're up to regulation. Then back inland, to make a tour of the hinterland with my Pioneers and help the villagers get themselves in shape." He shrugged. "Which could take anywhere from several months to a year or more. Has to be done though."

Franlan nodded. "To borrow from Lord Stark, wars are coming," he rumbled.


	45. Chapter 45: Oaths

Robert was just finishing his correspondence for the day when his secretary, a former scribe-slave named Maran, opened the door. "Your Grace," he said in his soft and slightly timid voice, "Septon Jonothor requests a moment of your time."

Robert's brows beetled in a pensive frown as he returned his quill to its inkpot. "By all means," he said, "send him in." He hadn't expected a visit from Jonothor, but he could always make time for the man who had put the crown on his head. Especially since he didn't make a habit of requesting audiences for frivolous reasons.

When Jonothor came in Robert's frown deepened; he had never seen the septon so out of sorts. Jonothor's severe, angular face was drawn and his jaw clenched, like a man trying to hold back vomit. His hands had picked up a slight tremble from somewhere, and he walked with the slow, deliberate gait of a man holding onto his self-control by his fingernails. As Jonothor bowed Robert waved impatiently. "Sit down, man, sit," he insisted, gesturing at the chair on the other side of his desk. "No need for formality, we're not in court."

Which was true; Robert's solar was one of the larger rooms in the royal suite, but it was still meant as an informal reception room as much as a workplace. Aside from the desk with its pair of chairs, there were a few other chairs and a low table with parchment, quills, and ink by the fireplace, a sideboard with a selection of good wines, and a small kettle for mulling them when winter came. Which, the gods willing, would not be for some years yet; Robert was unsure as to how well the Kingdom of Myr could withstand a winter without at least a year or two of peace beforehand to prepare for it. "Drink for you?" Robert asked, gesturing at the sideboard. "You look like you could do with one.

"No, thank you Your Grace," Jonothor said hoarsely. "I have come to inform you that I will be sailing for King's Landing on the morning tide. I am summoned to the Great Sept of Baelor."

Robert blinked. "Forgive me," he said, "but I was under the impression that you had been sent here with us specifically because the Great Sept wanted you out of their sight. What do they want you back for?"

Jonothor reached into his cassock and drew out a scroll. "This," he replied, handing over the scroll with a slight rustle as his hand trembled involuntarily, "will explain."

Robert accepted the scroll, unrolling it to find a bull fixed with the seal of the High Septon. As he laboriously read through the flowery High Andalic of the bull, his frown deepened and deepened, so that by the time he reached the end he wore a scowl like a wrathful pagan deity. "What in the bowels of the Hells are they on?" he asked in a growl. "After that mess with Jaspar, I know you don't exactly see eye to eye with the High Septon and the Most Devout, but you're not a heretic!" Catching himself, he cocked an eyebrow. "Are you?"

Jonothor shrugged. "It is true that I have gone beyond the bounds of canon law," he admitted, "but always in a fashion that I believe to be consistent with the teachings of the _Seven-Pointed Star_ and the commandments of the gods. I have never denied the supremacy of the Seven, or their number and constitution, nor have I altered the Divine Office beyond the prescribed bounds." He shrugged again. "In any case, it will all come out at the trial," he went on. "Under canon law, I have the right to face my accusers and name an advocate to present evidence in my defense. I still have a few friends in Westeros who would be willing to defy the Most Devout."

Robert laid the scroll down on the table and leaned back in his chair. "How confident are you that you can win an acquittal?" he asked bluntly.

Jonothor spread his hands. "Before an impartial court, I would be reasonably confident," he replied. "As it is, I doubt that the Most Devout would be a model of impartiality in my case. Accused heretics do not usually find favorable listeners at the Great Sept. Have you heard of Jon Wicleff?"

Robert frowned. "Name rings a bell," he said slowly, "but I can't place it."

"He was another who believed that the Faith needed to change," Jonothor explained, "and in arguing so he ran afoul of the Great Sept. His death was suitably gruesome." Jonothor bowed his head. "The Stranger waits for us all," he said somberly, "and although I would rather keep him waiting a while longer, I will accept whatever judgment the Father levies upon me."

Robert frowned. "The Faith can't actually execute you, can't they?" he asked. "As I recall, someone sentenced to death by the Faith must be handed over to secular authority to be actually executed."

"That much is true," Jonothor admitted, "but I cannot foresee the Most Devout encountering any difficulty in that regard. King Stannis is, by all reports, a dutiful son of the Faith, if not an enthusiastic one." He stood. "By your leave, Your Grace, I have some final business to attend to before I leave tomorrow."

"No you don't," Robert said, having made his decision between one word and the next. "You aren't going anywhere."

Jonothor froze, blinking rapidly. "Your Grace," he said slowly, as if to a somewhat dense child, "I am summoned to the Great Sept. One does not simply refuse such a summons."

"One does when the summons is illegal," Robert replied. "Listen, whatever heresy you did, you did in the Kingdom of Myr, correct?" At Jonothor's hesitant nod he plunged ahead. "So even if the Most Devout were able to judge you, they would have to hand you over to me for execution. And since I will not do so, there is no point to you making such a long journey and undergoing such dangers when you don't need to."

Jonothor opened his mouth, then closed it. "The argument has some merit," he allowed finally, "but it ignores the central issue. If you give me safe harbor, Your Grace, then you will declare yourself to be an abettor of heresy and an enemy of the Faith." He spread his hands. "I submit, Your Grace, that your kingdom has enough enemies already without adding the Faith to their ranks."

Robert stood. "Have you forgotten the oaths I swore?" he asked softly. "The oaths you witnessed when you put the crown on my head? I swore to defend the faiths of my people, to uphold the rights of their clergy, and to protect them against _all_ their enemies, wheresoever they may arise." He shrugged. "If the Most Devout choose to make themselves the enemy of my people, then they can take the consequences."

Jonothor shook his head. "Your responsibility to the rest of your people outweighs your responsibility to me," he replied. "The Faith can be one of the strongest pillars of this kingdom, along with the Royal Army and the Red Temple. Even if the Seven never claim more than a third to a half of the smallfolk, they will still provide another means of binding them and the Faithful nobility to the kingdom and its mission of destroying slavery. If, on the other hand, that prop is turned against this kingdom . . ." Jonothor grimaced. "Imagine this kingdom placed under interdict, Your Grace. The Divine Office unsaid, the dead unable to be buried with the rites of the Faith or in sacred ground, the sacraments unperformed, the septs closed . . ." He shook his head. "Better that I should suffer whatever penalty the Faith levies upon me than that I should bring down such a fate upon the people who look to me for spiritual guidance."

Robert leaned forward, planting his knuckles on the desk. "Let them," he rumbled, his brows furrowing again. "We shall reopen the septs and celebrate the sacraments anyway."

Jonothor's jaw dropped, his face turning white. "Your Grace," he stammered, "are you seriously proposing to lead the kingdom into schism _deliberately?"_

"That is exactly what I am proposing," Robert said. "I am the King of Myr, not the High Septon, and I will not be dictated to by some soft-handed dress-wearing pimp who has done less for my kingdom than the least of my soldiers." He tilted his head to look past Jonothor. "Maran!" he roared. "Get in here!"

As Maran scuttled in, Robert pushed himself away from the desk and squared his shoulders. "Take dictation," he told his secretary, who situated himself at the fireplace table and took up a quill. "To His Holiness the High Septon," Robert began. "I have been told of your excommunication of my trusty and well-beloved friend Septon Jonothor from the Faith and your summoning of him to King's Landing to answer the charge of heresy. Upon interviewing Septon Jonothor myself, in my office as Defender of the Faiths, I have determined that he has done nothing to warrant such treatment, and that both the order of excommunication and the summons to appear are thereby invalid. Septon Jonothor has at every point in his service with the Sunset Company and the Kingdom of Myr acted in accordance with the highest traditions of the Faith, has earned the gratitude of the Crown for his deeds multiple times, and retains the complete faith of the people of his parish, his fellow septons, and of myself in both my office as King and in my private person. Accordingly, I have directed him to remain at his post in the First Sept of Myr and continue in the duties of his office." He nodded. "Add the usual salutations, but none of the usual pleasantries; I want to convey my displeasure at him. Write up a fair copy tonight and I'll review it with the Small Council tomorrow."

As Maran left the room, Jonothor bowed low. "Your Grace," he said humbly, "I truly appreciate your willingness to protect me, but I fear that you are making a grievous mistake. The Faith is not an ordinary enemy."

"Jon Arryn, Tywin Lannister, Hoster Tully, and Mace Tyrell all told me that I was making a grievous mistake when I abdicated the Iron Throne and formed the Sunset Company," Robert replied, gesturing broadly at the room. "And behold, here we are. If I have learned anything, Jonothor, it is that there is nothing that cannot be overcome with sufficient courage, skill, and might." He bared his teeth. "How many companies does the High Septon have?" he asked rhetorically.

XXX

"You're too fucking _slow!_" the exiled knight roared, all but dancing in rage. "Spur up, man, spur up! Faster, faster, fast-_oh for fuck's sake!_" There was a _thump_ as the trainee's lance hit the shield on the quintain, a creaking as the quintain's arms revolved around the central post, and then another _thump,_ this one rather heavier, as the sackful of wet sand on the other arm caught the trainee on the back of the head and knocked him off his horse to land heavily on the packed earth of the lists. The exiled knight snatched off his cap and dashed it to the ground with a cry of "Godsdamnit!" and strode towards the line of other trainees who were sitting their horses on the other end of the lists.

"Are those lily wands?!" he demanded. "Are you soldiers?! You're supposed to kill the other bastards; at that speed you won't even tickle them! It's enough to make the knightly aura of my blood turn to effluent!" He propped his fists on his hips as he glared at the trainees, who for their part stared at him with a sort of paralyzed fixation. "How many times do I have to tell you?" he demanded. "You lock your lance under your arm, you lean forward, you dig your spurs in, you get your nag up to speed, and you don't stop this side of Hellgates! It's not difficult when you do it right! Now again, from the top! You!" He aimed a finger at the trainee at the right end of the line. "Take your mark! And show some spirit this time or so help me gods I will put some on the end of my cock and ram it up your arse!"

Daario Naharis shrugged to himself as the trainee in question heeled his horse forward. The exiled knight, a Second Son who had been exiled from the Reach for murder, attempted kidnap, and chronic inability to pay his debts, had an abrasive manner that was exacerbated by his short temper, but he was universally recognized as the best lancer in Tyroshi service, so the men he was trying to turn into Andal-style armored lancers put up with him. And to give him his due, he was doing a decent job of it; the sellswords he was training not only knew how to ride, but they also knew how to use weapons from horseback, thereby removing the first problem of training a cavalry recruit. In further aid of the matter, the men he was training were throwing themselves at the problem with the determination of men whose livelihood was in danger. The few Stormcrows who had survived Tara had told enough stories of fighting the Andal heavy cavalry to impress upon even the densest listener that the future of cavalry warfare in the Disputed Lands was the armored lancer deployed in mass. A company that could field such cavalry in numbers was a company that would not only be able to survive the coming wars, but come out of them in a position to dominate the market.

Fortunately their employers were also sensing the tide of progress. While Tyrosh was more famous for its armor than its blades, the Andal-style arming sword with its rigid, diamond-cross-sectioned blade and needle-like point was easy enough to copy for a decent armorer and the number of skilled armorsmiths who called Tyrosh home meant that every heavy cavalryman could be equipped with at least a sword, a breastplate, a pot helm, and tassets. Provided, of course, they were willing to cover the cost of their new equipment, either in hard coin or on credit against their pay. Daario snorted to himself; trust merchants to find ways to make or save money, even with a hard and brutal war in the offing. If anything the Tyroshi did was going to undermine their chances of victory, it was the ingrained impulse to turn a profit on the fighting, or at least minimize any losses.

He glanced at the lances each trainee was using. _Especially when their enemies give them a push in that regard,_ he thought sourly.

The simple fact was that armies used a lot of seasoned wood. Lances, crossbows, tent poles, spear-shafts, axe handles, carts, saddle-trees, barrels . . . the list went on and on. Lances and spear-shafts, in particular, required relatively long, straight, and knot-less lengths of ash or fir or oak. Ships required even more wood, again in the form of long, straight, knot-free boards. That required trees, and one of the few things that Tyrosh did not have either in its mainland domains or on its island possessions was an abundance of suitable trees; centuries of ship-building and other construction had denuded the Disputed Lands and the Stepstones both of forests worthy of the name. The few that remained were more on the order of groves than proper woodlands, and were mostly maintained to provide hunting grounds for the Tyroshi nobility.

Ordinarily, this would not be a problem; Tyroshi merchants had been buying timber from the Stormlands for generations, and the commercial contacts that had been forged in the process were strong and extensive. The problem was that, again, the old paths in which the affairs of the Narrow Sea had walked for so long had been jarred awry. Westerosi merchants that for years and years had called Tyroshi merchants their friends and partners suddenly had no time for them and no words beyond curses; the raids of the Myrish exiles against the Westerosi mainland had soured their hearts and illustrated to them that their erstwhile partners were now at least the hosts of their enemies, if not enemies themselves. And then the Braavosi had gotten involved.

The Tyroshi timber cartel had paid one hundred silver ducats per hundredweight of seasoned timber landed on the docks of Tyrosh. The Sealord of Braavos, it seemed, was now offering one hundred and fifty silver dinars per hundredweight of seasoned timber on the docks of Stonhelm, the main port of exit for exported Stormlands timber, as well as the cost of shipping the timber to Braavos if a Westerosi ship was so contracted, payable either in hard coin or in sight drafts on the Iron Bank, which were as good as coined gold from Lorath to Qarth. Similar offers in King's Landing, Gulltown, and White Harbor combined to effectively shut Tyrosh out of the Westerosi timber market. Ordinarily this could have been compensated for by buying Qohorik timber through Volantis, but there were problems there too. Volantis was casting covetous eyes up the Rhoyne towards Dagger Lake, and in consequence the Qohorik were cutting back on the amount of timber they were allowing to be shipped downriver. What little did come down the Rhoyne was almost immediately bought up by the Triarchs, who also needed all the wood they could get to supply the needs of their new army.

The result was that the new heavy cavalry of Tyrosh, and the spearmen of the citizen's militia, were training with cast-iron poles instead of lances and spears, which would be issued from the city arsenal in the event of war. Daario knew that there was a side benefit to the necessity in that it would strengthen the men's arms more than they would be otherwise, but it was still best to train with the weapons you were actually going to fight with, if at all possible. The Archon had sent agents to Oldtown and Lannisport seeking timber, but those voyages would take months if not years to bear fruit, and the Tyroshi fleet had claimed first priority on the first shipment of seasoned timber, in order to retain their numeric edge over the Myrish.

Daario sighed as the third trainee in the line walked his horse forward to take his turn at the quintain. _One problem at a time, old son,_ he reminded himself. _Sufficient to the day is the difficulty thereof._


	46. Chapter 46: Better to Marry than to Burn

Serina Phassos sighed and shook her head at the sight of the black eye on her brother Adaran's face. "What was it this time?" she asked wearily. "Did someone compose an inferior sonnet to the Nightingale's eyebrow?"

Adaran gave her the sidelong look that every long-suffering younger sibling has given their nosy, interfering elders down the centuries. "No," he said, drawing out the word not quite long enough for insolence, "that slaver-lover Illyros Forin said that we should let the Kingdom of Myr fight its own battles. I disputed his position."

Serina cocked an eyebrow as she sat down at the table. "A fist is a tool of debate now?" she asked, glancing up as one of the kitchen maids brought in a basket of rolls. "Thank you, Minysa," she said politely, drawing a smile from the maid; the superiority of master to servant went without saying, as her mother had taught her, but a noblewoman of Braavos _never _treated the help like slaves. Part of that was knowing their names and thanking them for service done well and promptly.

"Seems to be working well enough for the Andals," Adaran replied, seizing a roll and splitting it in half with his knife. "The slavers operate on fear and power anyway," he went on, buttering his roll as he did so. "If you want to talk to them, it helps to speak their language."

Their father Ballario glanced up from his slice of frittata to fix Adaran with a look that was no less steely for being mild. "The Forins aren't slavers," he said brusquely. "I should know; I've been in business with them for forty years. Make sure you're certain of your target before you loose your words, boy."

Adaran returned his father's look. "I know they're not slavers, father," he said reasonably, "but what are we supposed to call those who do business with the slavers and close their eyes to the fact of slavery? Which is more vile; the one who commits a crime, or the one who stands aside and allows it to be committed?"

Ballario's gaze hardened. "Enough, boy," he said definitively. "I do not dispute the question, but I will not allow you to insult my partners under my roof." Adaran opened his mouth to continue the argument, but closed it as Ballario's gaze became adamantine. Standing from his chair he bowed shortly and strode away, his hand darting out to filch another roll as he went. Serina watched her brother walk away and sighed softly through her nose. The Moonsingers knew she loved her younger brother dearly, but he needed to learn not to provoke their father so.

Ballario blew his cheeks out as he leaned back in his chair. "I'm sorry you had to see that, my dear," he said to her. "Strife in a family is an ill thing, be it never so mild."

Serina shrugged slightly. "Better that I know of it, at least," she replied. "If only to know it exists."

Her father gestured acknowledgement. "Even so," he rumbled, in the mildly embarrassed tone that colored his words whenever such matters arose. He shook his head. "Adaran's a good lad, but he will let his heart run away with his head so. It's that damned faction he's fallen into, these Sharks as they call themselves. Pack of idle louts whose families don't give them enough work and let them run to mischief." He shook his head again, like a bull pestered by flies. "When I was a lad, young men of that age were kept too busy to get up to devilment."

Serina toyed with her frittata. "From what my friends tell me, the Whales aren't much better," she offered. "Nilona told me yesterday that her brothers have been present at four fights in the past six days, and three of them provoked by Whales."

The Sharks and the Whales were the two factions that had sprung up in Braavosi politics since the end of the First Slave War; the names had originated as derogatory insults that had quickly been adopted. The Sharks favored joining the Kingdom of Myr in their crusade against slavery, not simply with monetary aid but with arms. _To the ships!_ was their cry. _Spread the First Law at the sword's point! Remind the slavers why they fear the Titan!_ They were mostly young hotheads, as her father had said, but they also counted magisters among their number, and a frankly disturbing number of soldiers and fleet sailors eager to wipe out the stain of paying tribute to Khal Zirqo the Faithless.

The Whales, by contrast, preferred to keep their involvement in the fray to a minimum. They saw little point, or so they claimed, in spending Braavosi treasure and blood when the Kingdom of Myr not only did both so well, but placed their treasury effectively at the mercy of the Iron Bank. Let the Andals shoulder the burden they had assumed, they said, and let them carry Braavos to new heights of wealth and influence in the Narrow Sea.

Her father nodded. "And my own friends have told me of more such outbursts," he said. "Common brawls and proper duels both. No one has died yet, but the Night Watch fears the worst." He waved a hand. "But enough of such talk," he went on, his voice turning brisk. "You've had four days and nights to consider Magister Nestyris' offer on behalf of his son; what say you?"

Serina spread her hands. "If it is your will that I accept, father, than I shall certainly do so," she said guilelessly. "But is it entirely fitting for one of our house to marry a younger son of a family that only reached the rank of magister three years ago? You said yourself that you would have no tradesman for a son-in-law."

"Tradesman, bosh," Ballario replied. "The Nestyris's are perfectly respectable, and their second son is a good young man, or so I have heard."

"A good young man who has yet to make his first voyage," Serina rejoined. "Surely you would not force me to wed an untested youth, father?"

"I would see you wed to a good man, and that quickly," her father said seriously. "You and Adaran are the only heirs in the direct line of this house, and I know my cousins for the spendthrift wastrels they are. I will not suffer them to lay claim to your inheritance, girl, or Adaran's."

Serina bowed her head. She knew the law; in the event that a minor child had no living parents, custody passed to their nearest living relative, with preference shown to the male line. And with custody of their persons came control of their inheritance and their betrothal and marriage until they came of age. Her father was past sixty, and the brown had long since leached out of his hair and beard; she and her younger brother had been born late in their parents' lives, and their mother had died birthing a stillborn daughter. If, all the gods prevent, her father died before either of them attained their majority, then they would certainly be at the mercy of their father's cousins, the best of whom simply had a weakness for gambling that was matched by his ineptitude. The thought of their house being mortgaged or even sold in order to pay off his debts, or of being forced into a marriage to one of their cousins' more unsavory business partners, simply did not bear thinking of.

And while Adaran might be able to resist or flee, she would have no such recourse. Indeed, even the worst case would appear to outsiders to be only the fulfilling of familial obligation. At sixteen she was old to be unbetrothed; the average age of betrothal among the Braavosi magisters was fourteen or fifteen, for girls and boys both. This, it was acknowledged but never explicitly stated, was so that young men going on their first voyage in the City's trading fleets had something more than mere filial obligation and patriotic duty to prevent them from jumping ship in a foreign land for romance's sake or, even more shocking, bringing a foreign bride back to the City. It happened on occasion, but social opprobrium meant that such marriages rarely prospered.

All of which meant that she had to either marry or at least become betrothed, and soon; even a marriage of convenience would be better than one of force. The problem was that none of the unattached men of her age and station were men that she could consider living the rest of her life with without being bored out of her mind.

And while some of her friends might come near to swooning at the thought of being carried away by some dashing, handsome, chivalrous Andal knight, much to the vexation of their brothers and cousins, Serina had no such illusions. Her station and her family's wealth meant that she had to marry for the sake of advantage more than anything, and a rich lordling who had turned his back on land and fortune to fight in a worthy cause, or a hedge knight dreaming of fortune and glory, would have little to offer her family.

And besides, for her to succumb to such fantasies would smack of hypocrisy. Had she not called two of her closest friends a pair of fools just yesterday for dreaming too long on the thought of marrying Jaime Lannister or Robert Baratheon?

XXX

Eddard looked across the training yard to where Robert was exercising at one of the pells and frowned pensively. Ordinarily, when Robert was at the pell, he fought the man-high oak post almost as if it were a living opponent, dancing about it on the balls of his feet and darting back and forth to strike at it with his hammer, surprisingly light-footed for a man his size. Today, however, Robert had simply squared up to the pell and was methodically beating at it with his hammer, chips flying from where the blunt serrations on the striking face of his hammer had gouged at the wood.

It wasn't like Robert to practice so sloppily; there was always the temptation for a man as large and strong as Robert to neglect their mobility in favor of raw strength and heavy armor, but their masters-of-arms had never let Robert fall into that trap. And Robert had continued those habits after leaving the Eyrie. Something, therefore, was out of joint.

He turned to Saul, who had recently become his squire and was almost painfully keen to learn how to fight. "Pair with Daimh, tell him I said he was to teach you the guard of the boar," he said. Saul nodded and trotted over to where Daimh was supervising some of the newer household men at drill, while Eddard walked across the yard towards Robert, shouldering his longsword. "If you're trying to cut that thing down, I would suggest an axe," he said lightly, making Robert pause and look at him dully. Eddard blinked; Robert looked terrible. His face was drawn, his eyes red, and he looked more subdued than he had since King's Landing. "Are you all right, brother?" he asked. "You look like someone drank all your beer."

Robert let the haft of his hammer slip through his fingers until the butt hit the ground and folded his hands over the hammerhead. "I asked Alaesa to marry me," he said wearily. "She refused. Said she wasn't cut out to be a queen and anyway women like her didn't get to be queens. They just got to live in comfort all their days and bear the children that men didn't feel like giving their wives."

"Ah," Eddard said, nodding in acknowledgement, before gesturing with the hand that wasn't holding his longsword on his shoulder. "Well, as hints go, at least it's pretty clear . . ."

"Damn you Ned, it's not funny," Robert snapped, a thread of anger entering his voice. "I swore, after Pentos, that I wouldn't treat a woman like a whore. If I keep Alaesa as a mistress, I would be doing exactly that, and I wouldn't even be able to have the excuse of ignorance this time." He sighed gustily, looking down towards the short-mowed grass. "She's the only woman who's been able to make me laugh, _actually _laugh, since Lyanna," he said softly. "I know I have to marry, and that quickly, but I don't want to marry some brainless bint with nothing of worth but her name and her womb. I'm owed a bit more happiness than _that_, surely?"

Eddard nodded again, then jerked his head towards the rest of the yard. "Come on, let's spar."

Robert shook his head. "I'm not . . ." he began.

"Best thing for you," Eddard said over him. "Get your mind off Alaesa for a little while at least."

Robert stood looking at the ground for a moment more, almost like one of the more brooding statues of the Warrior, before looking up and nodding. "Fine then," he said. "But not with longswords. I saw your match against Jaime; I'm not in the mood to look like an ox."

"Arming sword and buckler," Eddard promised.

A few moments later the two foster brothers were standing towards the edge of the training yard, having swapped longsword and hammer for their arming swords and a buckler apiece. The first exchange was slow and almost tentative, ending with a wrist cut from Eddard that came to rest on the inside of Robert's knee, but afterwards they became faster and more forthright, until eventually Eddard and Robert were throwing cuts almost as hard and fast as they would have thrown them at Tyroshi regulars and raising a discordant _cling-ting-scring_ of metal on metal. Their last exchange ended in Eddard catching Robert's blade in an elegant bind, whereupon Robert dropped blade and buckler both to rush in, wrap his arms around Eddard's midriff, heave him bodily off his feet and throw him to the ground with a powerful writhing twist like a massive python, and almost draw his rondel dagger before he remembered that this was his brother-in-all-but-blood that was pinned underneath him. Slowly he got to his feet, hauling Eddard along with him.

"You really are getting better," he said. "You wouldn't have even tried that last bind when we were at the Vale."

"Of course not, since I only learned it two sennights ago," Eddard replied, handing sword and buckler off to Saul, who had been watching them wide-eyed along with all the rest of Eddard and Robert's households that were currently at drill. As Daimh and Ser Dafyn Otley roared the cheering men back to their exercises, Robert and Eddard strode over to one of the wooden benches that were scattered around the periphery of the training yard. Saul met them there with a canteen of watered wine each and hovered a moment more until Eddard raised an eyebrow at him and nodded towards Daimh. "Saul's a good lad," he told Robert. "A bit _too_ eager, though. If he hadn't been under strict orders to remain with the baggage train he'd have jumped into Narrow Run with both feet, and him barely fourteen."

"Better to have to restrain the stallion than prod the mule," Robert replied. "He'll learn." He tipped back his canteen for a pull and wiped his mouth with his the back of his hand afterwards. "I'll ask Alaesa again tomorrow," he said. "Who knows, maybe she'll have changed her mind."

Eddard shook his head. "Only if you want to forfeit her regard for you," he said firmly. "You asked her, she said no, that ends the matter. Part of not treating a woman like a whore is respecting her choices." At Robert's raised eyebrow he shrugged. "I've only been married a few months, but I learned that much in the first sennight."

Robert shook his head. "Maybe I should take a tip from you," he said. "Go down to the docks, find a willing woman, and have her turn out to a desirable and worthy wife."

"You truly think so?" Eddard asked. "When I married Amarya, I was no one important; simply the King of Myr's mad dog who he kept around to set on his enemies. Who I married didn't matter to anyone but me." Which was no longer strictly true, given that Robert had granted him a wide swathe of lands bordering on the royal demesne around Myr city as a wedding gift. Calculating by acreage, Eddard was one of the two or three greatest men in the Kingdom of Myr. "You, on the other hand, are a king; who you marry matters a great deal indeed." He took a sip from his canteen. "If you want my advice, after Alaesa's refusal," he went on, "then I would recommend that you look to Braavos for a wife. At the moment the Braavosi see us as customers, and a proxy who can do the lion's share of the dying in this phase of their long war against slavery. If they see one of their own as our queen, and an heir to our throne that is half-Braavosi . . ." he shrugged.

Robert frowned. "You think that we might pull them into the war openly?" he asked.

"I think that it would make it harder for the peace party in Braavos, these Whales, as we've heard them called, to argue that we should be left to do all the fighting and dying if doing so weakens the position of a Braavosi citizen," Eddard replied. "And if Gerion can finagle a treaty out of them at the same time that unequivocally states that Braavos will join us in the event of war, then we will have won the most powerful navy in the known world to our side. You know as well as I, brother, how much we need such a navy."

Robert nodded. The Royal Fleet was growing again, but only slowly, and even after incorporating the remains of Erik Ironmaker's fleet it still numbered only one ninety-five longships and fifty galleys. "I will think on it," he conceded. "After I see Alaesa settled. And I say it now, Ned," he looked Eddard in the eye. "Whoever I marry, Alaesa's child will be a Baratheon. It was stories of my bastards that made Lyanna wary of marrying me; with the gods as my witness, I'll not sire another child without giving them my name. To shit with the consequences."

Eddard nodded slowly and deeply. "As you say, Your Grace."

**Author's note: My beta reader and I considered not having Braavosian politics split between a peace party and a war party, but it just made too much sense not to put in. Braavos has been coexisting with the slaver cities for centuries; it stands to reason that at least some of the Braavosi magisters and trading cartels would be reluctant to go to war against their customers and business partners.**


	47. Chapter 47: Ambition and Humility

Balon Greyjoy stared out the window as his maester finished reading the letter that had arrived that morning by raven from King's Landing, doing his level best to contain the anger boiling through his veins. "Read that last part again," he said, his voice rigid with self-control. "The part just before the salutation."

There was a light cough as the maester cleared his throat and a soft rustle of parchment as he raised the letter again. "We require you, therefore," he quoted in the calm voice of a professional reader, "in accordance with the law of the Realm, to forestall, stay, and prevent any attempt by Ser Harras to resume his place in the succession of House Harlaw or to assume the lordship of that House or any cadet branch thereof, by whatever means you deem fit and proper. Any aid you may require in this regard shall be provided. Given under our hand . . ."

Balon silenced him with a raised hand, not trusting himself to speak without losing his hold on his temper. _By the God, the arrogance,_ he seethed in the privacy of his mind. That he, the Lord Reaper of Pyke, the Son of the Sea Wind, should be spoken to like some damned _servant_ . . .

Ruthlessly he bottled his rage, forcing his still-raised hand to uncurl from the fist he had clenched it into. It had been difficult, the first few times, but he had gotten much better at it, over these past two years. The God knew he had plenty of practice.

Ever since his father had sailed away to the Dornish rebellion he had been given cause for fury, and no opportunity to remedy it. First he had been left in the Isles when there was blood to be spilled and reputations to be made; the only reputation Balon had made from that war had been that of a stay-at-home, and one who had come when called like a dog to boot, after Stannis had summoned him to Sunspear to pledge his fealty. Given a choice, Balon would have stayed on Pyke, but that would have risked Euron being asked to pledge fealty on his behalf, which would all to easily have led to the impression that, as Euron was the one who had done homage, it was Euron who was rightfully Lord of the Iron Isles.

And then his brother, his faithless, false-hearted, traitorous brother, had refused his direct command to come home and instead set himself up as a lord in his own right; a lord who welcomed all who found themselves dissatisfied with Balon's rule, or who simply wanted to honor the Old Way as they couldn't in the Isles. The flood of men, and not just runaway thralls and nameless karls, but fighting-men and lords, to join the traitor's standard had been galling. Even worse, some of them were now coming back, telling tales to any who would listen of the wealth and fame that could be gained in the east, and the honor in which the Ironborn were held as the Kingdom of Myr's seaward shield.

Balon spat out the window. As if it did not matter that to go to Myr was to become one of Robert the Brief's dogs, little better than a hired hand. The Isles were poor, he admitted it, but here the sons of the sea were the masters of their fates, and answered to none but their freely chosen lords. Unfortunately, few of the Ironborn seemed to share his view of the situation; of the fifteen thousand trained warriors that House Greyjoy could theoretically call to their banner, barely eight thousand remained in the Isles. And those that remained were not all they might be. Many were older men, already settled with wives and families and reputations, while others either didn't have the ambition to sail so far to make their reputations or were so troublesome and cross-grained that they couldn't find a crew that would take them. Of the rest, a minority were established lords and their housekarls who had no need to seek fame and fortune in foreign lands, but many more simply didn't like House Greyjoy to the point where even a rebel Greyjoy was unpalatable; those, Balon had learned, often spent their evenings muttering that the current occupant of the Seastone Chair was unworthy of it.

Not that Balon feared an attempt at overthrow; Pyke was not the richest or the largest of the islands, but his hold over those of his directly sworn warriors that still remained to him was still strong, and none of the potential usurpers had the strength to defeat him and every other claimant. For a certainty none of his other brothers would attempt it; Euron seemed content enough as one of Stannis' lapdogs, Urrigon was a dullard, and Aeron was a drunk. And as popular as Victarion was, Balon was still the Lord Reaper, with the power and the ability to reward his followers that that entailed. He was not loved, but he was not openly hated or despised either.

And there were ways of winning the love of the Ironborn. He turned away from the window to fix his maester with a look. "Take dictation," he said, driving the maester to produce parchment, quill, and ink. "To His Grace King Stannis," he began, "I fail to understand the necessity of preventing Ser Harras' assumption of his rightful inheritance. He has done good service in your brother's wars, is a true and faithful son of the Isles, and has committed no crime for which he deserves to be disinherited. All this being so, I cannot justly or honorably forbid him from assuming his inheritance of Grey Garden and his place in the succession to the Lordship of Harlaw." He waved his hand. "Add the usual titles and write out a fair copy for my signature."

As his maester busied himself at the desk he turned back toward the window. Of all qualities the Ironborn respected courage and strength most of all, and the best way for him to show both in this situation was to champion his bannerman's cause against the king, wherever that road led him. If nothing else his good-brother the Reader would be properly grateful; Harras was his cousin, after all. And if what he had heard of Harras' deeds in the east was true, then he would be no mean personage himself in years to come. He would only be inheriting Grey Garden and not Harlaw itself, as the Reader had two living sons, but a man with a name such as Harras had earned in Myr would not be one to trifle with.

Although if Balon played his cards right, his name would grow to outshine even his treacherous brother's. Victarion might bend the knee to a greenlander king and eat the scraps from his table, but Balon would stand tall and tell an even greater king where to shove his commands. He knew which course would earn greater respect from his people.

XXX

The Bahaan Bakery was one of the institutions of Blackpetal Lane. Owned and worked by the same family for three generations, it served almost every family in a three-block radius, as well as a few noble houses before the Siege, and it had done so with a consistency of quality, price, and quantity that had made them one of the most formidable bakeries in their district. Bakers starting a new shop knew better than to try and open a storefront in the area Bahaan's served; they would never be able to survive, much less turn a profit.

Old Janos, the current patriarch of the Bahaan family, lived his life after the Siege in almost exactly the same way that he had done before it. Every day at the fourth hour before sunrise he awoke, along with his wife, his two adult sons and their wives, and his six grandchildren, and led them downstairs to light the ovens. That first ritual of the day done, he led them in a quick prayer to the Lord of Light; strictly speaking, the Dawn Prayer had to be said, well, at _dawn_, but High Priest Danikos had issued a dispensation to the city's bakers in view of the fact that dawn saw them already hard at work, and High Priest Kalarus had confirmed it after his ascension.

Prayers finished, the bakery became a hive of activity as the family prepared for the day's business. While the children put out the day-old bread and made sure the front of the store was swept and clean for their customers, the adults mixed the day's dough. Janos led the storm of activity at the mixing and kneading counters as he had done every day for the forty years since his father's early death, the precision with which he measured out water and flour and salt and yeast and the care with which he mixed and kneaded belied by the speed with which he did so. Under his knobby-knuckled hands a loaf of bread could go from raw ingredients to rising dough with almost unbelievable speed, faster even than his sons, whom he had taught every trick and secret he knew and had the strength and stamina of comparative youth to speed their work. There were things you learned in almost sixty years as a baker.

It was said that Janos Bahaan was the finest baker in the tradesmen's district, perhaps the finest in Myr. He never said so himself, had never dreamed of saying so. To him it was simply his life, the life given to him when he had been born in the upstairs bedroom where he and his wife had brought their children into the world.

By the time that the last round of loaves were leaving the oven the sun was coming up, and the customers with it. Old Arario and Vogonno, the two City Watchmen who had walked the night patrol in their part of the district, had been killed in the sack that had followed the Siege, but they had been replaced by Varynno and Lazello, also City Watchmen of the night patrol, who on their way home from the Watch house stopped by to pick up a loaf apiece. Janos chatted with them briefly, as he had done with Arario and Vogonno, and learned that they had had a quiet shift, with no murders, only two robberies, and, unusually, a burglary. He assured them that he kept his windows locked during the nights (he did) and kept his valuables safely hidden (under a floorboard underneath the bed he shared with his wife for the most part, although his sons had convinced him to open an account with the Iron Bank that the weekly profit now went into) and they went on their way, Lazello ruffling the hair of Janos' youngest grandson affectionately as he went.

Next there came the servants, maids and errand boys collecting the standing orders of those noble houses that Bahaan's provided bread for; a noble house's cook certainly could and would make bread, but that was the bread that was served on special occasions or to guests. The bread that the household ate on a day to day basis could only be provided in the necessary quantities by a dedicated bakery. They were paid servants now, not slaves, but the gossip was much the same, even if most of the names had changed; Lord So-and-So was in a temper about taxes, young Master Such-and-Such was chasing after Lord So-and-So's daughter, Lady This-and-That was entertaining male callers while her husband was out on business. Janos responded to all of these little tales with a shake of the head, or a laugh, or a wry comment, or an exaggerated shrug, as the case called for, while he filled their baskets with their orders, and sent them on their way with thanks for their business and a kind word or two to those who seemed to need it.

Then there came everyone else; tradesmen, small merchants, notaries, day workers, students, City Watchmen, even a few soldiers seeking to supplement their daily rations with better bread than they received in the barracks kitchens. With these last Janos had initially decided to charge them less than the usual rate, in order to be on the safe side, but the soldiers had insisted on paying the full price; their sergeants, they had explained, would go spare if they found out that they were cheating their own people. Janos, in some bemusement, had acquiesced, and had spread the word to his fellow bakers to not even think about cheating the soldiers. If a sergeant's threatened wrath could make soldiers behave then a sergeant was a fearsome creature indeed, and not one that it would be wise to cross.

After the first rush of business the day settled into its usual ebb and flow. A slight lull in the mid-morning during which the family ate their second meal of the day (the first was usually eaten on the move, or in what few lulls existed in the pre-dawn hours) followed by another rush around noon as people who hadn't gotten their loaves that morning got one for luncheon and one or two more for supper. A final spurt of activity occurred around the third hour past noon, when those who discovered that they didn't have quite enough bread for supper dashed in to buy a loaf or two, and then the shop closed. But the daily work didn't finish there. The children plied their brooms again, while the adults banked the oven fires and cleaned the counters; bakers learned to be fastidious from a young age, in order to stave off mice and ants, and Janos was a firm believer that if you took care of your store, then your store would take care of you.

The family ate supper earlier than non-bakers did, around five hours past noon, thanks to their earlier start to the day, and then the usual household affairs occurred. The grandchildren would take their lessons from their grandmother, Janos' sons would do whatever work was needed around the store or the upstairs living quarters while their father calculated the daily take, and their wives would do whatever washing, sewing, or cleaning came to hand. It was a day like any other, and in the forty years since he had taken over the shop Janos had only missed twenty such days of work. Four for the births of each of his children (his two sons, a daughter who was now married to a butcher, and a second daughter who had been stillborn), three for the marriages of his children, eight for the births of his grandchildren (four from one son, two from the other, and two from his daughter), one when his mother had died, the day in which the city had been stormed, and the three days of the sack.

Bahaan's had survived the sack of course; by law buildings containing bakeries had to be constructed entirely of stone, against the risk of fire, so what few fires had been set had posed no danger. And Janos had never owned a slave, had never had the wealth to buy and maintain one or the need for one, and he had been known as one who would give a sympathetic ear and a kind word to anyone, even if they wore collar and brand. Even in the artisan's district they had heard that of him, and so he and his had been spared, thanks to the small band of former household slaves who had joined him and his sons in guarding the bakery and directed potential looters to look elsewhere.

Immediately after the sack had ended he had reopened the bakery. People didn't stop needing bread simply because the world had been broken into pieces and reassembled in entirely the wrong order, after all. And more than that, Janos had needed the world to feel normal, after the sack, and the only way in which his world could be normal was to open the bakery and put in a solid day's work. That had been noticed, and his name writ down somewhere, though he had known it not. If he had had his say his name would have been forgotten, but that was out of his hands. Lord Stark had not given much thought to the use of informants among the people of the city when he was the King's Hand, but the new Hand, Ser Gerion or whatever his name was, had less faith in his fellow subjects it seemed. Which had led to the change in Janos Bahaan's life.

It had been three months since the man had come to him and explained what the Hand wanted him to do. In most ways it was quite simple; do as he had done for forty years and more and listen to the talk of his customers, but this time_remember_ what they said, and if anything struck him as dangerous or something that the Hand should know about, report it. And also report if there was nothing much to say in either regard, so that they would be able to know if someone was impersonating him.

That last part had struck Janos as really quite silly (Impersonate _him,_ of all people?) but the man had been quite serious. It was a known device, he had said, his brow furrowed, and people had died because of it before. So after Janos finished calculating the daily take (reading, writing, and figuring were necessary skills for an independent man of business to have, even a baker, who was normally considered among the lower occupations worthy of a guild), he pulled a sheet of parchment across the desk towards him and began to write. It was the report which he was supposed to hand off to a courier once every sennight, and so far he had nothing of interest to report.

Oh to be sure, he had heard rumors of complaint; the Myrish noble class had been all but extinguished during the sack but the remaining rich merchants and burghers lived in fear and horror that they would be remembered and dragged out to their deaths, the guildmasters and the other rich men of the city complained about taxes, the few small ship captains who came through his door complained incessantly of the vagaries of wind and wave and trade, but everyone complained, didn't they? Janos considered his life to be very nearly perfect, in its way, but even he had some complaints about how it had all gone. He could have done without his mother dying, for instance, and while time had dulled the pain hardly a day went by that he didn't remember the daughter who hadn't survived. And of course there were the myriad minor frustrations of everyday life. People went through hardships, they complained about them, and then, for the most part, they picked up and moved on. So those grumbles he didn't set down in his report; they simply weren't important, in his opinion.

Nor did he have any dangerous rumors to report. For pity's sake, he ran a bakery not some smoky tavern down by the docks where you could buy a slit throat for the price of a mug of ale. It wasn't as if foreign spies were going to walk through his door and spill their darkest secrets like rolls from a dropped basket.

So he simply wrote down the date and _nothing of interest to report_, folded the parchment carefully, and put it back in the ledger that only he and his wife ever touched and only he ever opened. Two more days, and he would be able to take it out, carry it into the alley behind the store, and leave it under a certain rock, where it would be replaced by a handful of copper coins; due consideration for his services, he had been given to understand, given the lack of danger in his work and the unlikelihood that he would uncover something worth silver or gold. Janos shrugged; he was a respectable man who ran the most successful bakery in the tradesmen's district, it wasn't as if he needed the money. He would never be rich, but he wouldn't leave his family poor, ether, and in all honesty he was content with that much. An excess of money, he had observed over the years, seemed to act like some kind of disease that made a man incapable of thinking right. If he were the ambitious sort he might have thought about how high he could rise in the Crown's service, but Janos was fundamentally an unambitious man. He was a baker, his father and grandfather had been bakers, and his sons and grandsons would be bakers. That was how the world worked.

He poured another mug of ale for himself and blew off the foam. He would much rather, he thought sourly, have never come to the Hand's attention.


	48. Chapter 48:All the Kings' Men

Ser Arthur Dayne reined his horse aside and then wheeled it back to review the company as it marched into the small square where it was to be welcomed back to Volantis. As the Company of the Dragon tramped past, he couldn't help but feel a thrill of pride at the sight of them, one hundred and fifty knights and nine hundred heavy foot, spearmen and crossbowmen, marching proudly under the banner of the three-headed dragon. If only half of them were men of Westeros, that was only the more miraculous; that men who had never bent the knee to the Targaryens, who three months ago would have laughed in his face if he had commanded them to bend the knee, should now acknowledge Viserys Targaryen as their king.

Even better, the men were in high spirits. For the Essosi it was mere pride at an easy victory and a return to a city with good wine and good whores with a victory bonus in their pockets that was making them strut, but the Westerosi were even more changed. When they had marched out from the city they had done so correctly enough but there had been very little pride in the men who had suffered so many defeats and such an astonishing betrayal. But now they were returning from their first victory in a year; an easy victory perhaps but a triumph nonetheless, when set against the catastrophe of Tara and the escape from Myr. Arthur had not seen his men march with such pride since they had marched to the field of Tara, and the sight made his eyes prickle in a way that had nothing to do with the brightness of the day.

As they filed into the square a series of commands brought the lead banda to a halt, while the other two bandas marched off to either side to change the company's formation from column of march to line of battle before the reviewing stand. A final command brought nine hundred right feet stamping to attention, while one hundred and fifty lances swept down in salute and Ser Garin Uller, the standard-bearer of the company and the newest knight of the Kingsguard thanks to his daring in the field, dipped the banner to the Triarch; only he, Arthur, Barristan, and Donys knew that he was really saluting King Viserys, who stood at the Triarch's right hand, taller than Arthur remembered him with an almost unnaturally grave expression on his round child's face and Barristan standing behind him like an alabaster statue.

While the Triarch, a kettle-bellied man resplendent in embroidered velvet and gold brocade, began to pontificate on the company's recent victory against Mantarys, Arthur was already beginning to plan the next campaign the Volantenes would send them on. The signs, Donys had written to him, were unmistakable; the Triarchs meant to declare war on Qohor, taking advantage of the perceived distraction of the Braavosi towards the Disputed Lands to extend their dominion up the Rhoyne. Norvos, it seemed, did not figure into the Triarchs' plan, although why that might be Donys could not say.

In any case, Arthur decided as the Triarch continued to declaim at his king's soldiers, comparing them to the heroes of Old Valyria, a war up the Rhoyne, like any war, would take logistics and good troops. The logistics would be relatively easy, thanks to the abundance of river galleys, barges, and cargo boats that plied the River Rhoyne. The good troops, on the other hand, might prove troublesome. The citizen's militia Donys had written to him about seemed good enough for catching arrows that might hit someone important, but they wouldn't be able to match proper men-at-arms, much less the Unsullied that Qohor relied upon for the bulk of its fighting strength. The only fighters that Volantis had which might be able to do so were the tiger cloaks, the Golden Company, and the Company of the Dragon, and of those the tiger cloaks were unreliable thanks to their R'hllorist leanings and the Golden Company wasn't the only-somewhat-welcome-guest that the Company of the Dragon was but a proper, genuine sellsword company. If their contract was paid off tomorrow they would have no problem simply marching away, unlike the Company of the Dragon.

Arthur concealed his distaste with the ease of long practice as the Triarch began to reach the end of his oration. If the Triarchs meant for the Company of the Dragon to be ground to pieces in the blood-mill of war, then he would have to find ways to prevent it. Or at the very least, to keep the grinding to a minimum.

XXX

Mace Tyrell smiled beatifically as he surveyed the scene in the great hall of the Red Keep. Ordinarily he didn't like King's Landing (an uglier, rougher, and more malodorous city even than Oldtown, so unlike his beauteous and well-ordered Highgarden), but he could make an exception for an occasion such as this. For it was a bright-shining day, there was peace from Dorne to the Wall, the gods were in their heavens, the flower of the South and the pick of the North were gathered in the capital, and King Stannis and Queen Cersei's second-born child, only three months old, was being presented to the court.

Princess Joanna, she had been named; a lovely babe, all agreed, though how exactly this was decided Mace hadn't the foggiest idea. One baby looked much like another, to his eyes. But even if she had been born ugly, the important thing was that she had been born alive and healthy and Queen Cersei seemed none the worse for it.

Even better, King Stannis had declared a holiday in honor of his daughter's birth; the easiest way to soften the Grim Stag's heart, it seemed, was to give him another child. And this time, there were no rebellions in the offing to spoil the festivities. To be sure the news from the Iron Isles was vaguely troubling, but Mace was not unduly worried. Whatever else Balon Greyjoy might be, he was not an utter fool. Surely he would see that provoking a war against the might of the Seven Kingdoms, united under a monarch as vigorous as Stannis, could only lead to an early grave. Not that there weren't other ways to play the game of thrones, but the Ironborn had never had the patience for finesse.

For the most part the assembled nobility seemed to have caught the mood of jubilation and were reflecting it seven-fold. Even the usually sober Northmen were cheerful; Lord Bolton was _smiling_, which judging by rumor alone Mace would have judged impossible. The only man who seemed less than entirely content was, paradoxically, Tywin Lannister, whose habitually severe mien had softened but not to the point of smiling. The general agreement, judging by what Mace had heard, was that he was disappointed that his newest grandchild was a princess and not another prince to secure the succession. Mace, however, harbored a thought that it was the child's name more than it's gender that was the cause for the Old Lion's attitude; by all accounts Tywin had truly loved his late lady wife, and for his granddaughter to be named after her must have dredged up at least a few painful memories.

Mace snorted softly. _Spoilsport,_ he mentally chided the lord of Casterly Rock. _Don't you know that this is a celebration?_ Not that Mace strictly cared what Tywin thought at the moment, for his stock at court had ascended to new heights.

It had begun in the Red Viper Rebellion, when Mace had led his army into the Red Mountains. There had been no clashes to match the Battle of the Greenblood, thanks to the relative paucity of support for Oberyn among the Dornish marcher houses, but Stannis had publicly acknowledged that Mace's efforts, and those of Lord Tarly as his chief lieutenant, had kept Western Dorne from declaring for the rebel, and helped to contain the spread of the rebellion. Even better the casualties had been light; enough to show the depth of the Reach's commitment to the Baratheon dynasty, but not enough to cause unrest in the Reach. The only fly in the ointment had been the price that Oberyn had put on the head of Mace's son Willas. Even for a Dornishman, that had been beyond the pale. Mace had invaded Dorne as a move in the game of thrones; it hadn't been personal. Not until Randyll Tarly's guards had caught the Dornishman creeping into Willas' tent with a poisoned dagger.

Mace had gladly paid every golden stag of the price he had put on Oberyn's head in return, and done it in person even, to make it clear how greatly he esteemed men who did him such service. Of course it had been made easier by Ser Rickon Riverbend being the sort of man he was. In Mace's experience, and from what he had heard, most bastards who found themselves elevated to some rank went to the bad, either through dissolution facilitated by greater wealth or because they couldn't see past the chip on their shoulder. But Ser Rickon had seemed not to have been so moved, despite the magnitude of his elevation; indeed he seemed a fine knight and a pious, good-natured man, if a touch over-courteous.

And the Royal Order of the Sun had been a fascinating concept. It was unlikely that he would be able to establish a similar order in the Reach, but he certainly planned to learn what he could of it. He had already made up his mind to send Loras to serve a term under the Order's banner when he was ready to squire.

Mace shook his head and brought himself back to the present, allowing his smile to grow by a few more teeth as he did so. He had known his gift for the little princess would go over well.

There had been the predictable profusion of gold and silver and ivory rattles and toys from people of lesser imagination. Tywin had presented a masterfully worked and magnificently decorated little box from Qarth that played a simple musical tune on a series of trip-hammered strings by means of a pin-studded cylinder on a wound spring. Lord Captain Euron Greyjoy, Stannis' favorite watch-dog of the Narrow Sea, had sent a scale model of his ship, the _Unspeakable_, that was perfect down to the little wooden figures of the crew on the deck and could apparently float. Brandon Stark had sent a cunningly wrought silver pendant of a single, almost impossibly intricate snowflake on a silver chain for the princess to wear when she was of a proper age. All perfectly acceptable gifts for a princess of one of the most powerful lineages in the world. But they had forgotten that Stannis prized practicality above simple display. Mace had not.

House Tyrell's gift had been a selection of cuttings and seedlings from their personal gardens, carefully transported to the capital by a small company of gardeners to be replanted in the new gardens that had replaced the Dragonpit. Those gardens were to be a royal haven from the cares and troubles of governance, and a place where they could meet with their favorites and petitioners in less formal circumstances than might be allowable in the Red Keep. The Joanna Gardens, they were to be named, and both Stannis and Cersei were said to be determined that they were to be the finest gardens in Westeros.

Mace sipped his Arbor Gold appreciatively. A jealous man might think that such an ambition would be an insult to House Tyrell, but he was not so small-minded. And in this, as in all other things, he was happy to oblige Stannis to the best of his abilities.

XXX

_The following is an excerpt from _Flash for the Faith!_, the second instalment in the Flash Papers by George Dand._

I wasn't too surprised to receive an invitation to the presentation of Princess Joanna; I was a certified hero of the realm after all, even if only half of my exploits were public knowledge and all of them were, in my opinion, vastly overinflated. For instance, I've dined out in Sunspear at least twice on the strength of being the Ser Harry Flash who slew the four Uller men at the Greenblood, when in reality I only managed to kill one of them, and that only by blind luck; it was my sergeant who killed the other three, but he died and I didn't, so I was the one who received the laurels.

But however unjustified my reputation might have been, I wasn't the sort to look a gift horse in the mouth in those years. Stannis was a bit of a sobersides, and when he was in a temper about something he could put the fear of the Stranger into a stone, much less me, but he knew a host's duty well enough, and what little he forgot, his wife didn't. I suppose being married to a Lannister has its benefits, even if Cersei always struck me as a bit of a cold fish. Face like a goddess of course, and the sort of body men would kill to see naked, but too haughty by half for my tastes. I can only imagine that it would put a fellow off his stride, to look a woman in the face when in the act and see her regarding him like an insect.

In any case once the fuss and bother of the official presentation of the royal infant was done with, Maryam and I promenaded around the great hall, gassing and being gassed at by the rest of the quality, and Maryam almost squealing with delight at the pomp and display of it all. I could almost see her thinking how splendid the hall at the family castle would look with some decoration and I felt a twinge of pity for our poor steward who would have to talk her out of commissioning a gilded chandelier or a forty-foot tapestry showing the Battle of the Greenblood.

I had just been cornered by Renly Baratheon, the baby of the Baratheon brothers, who was squeaking to be told about the Greenblood and the rest of the Dornish War when a Stormguard knight appeared at my elbow saying that Stannis was requesting my attendance on a private matter. Of course I couldn't just say, "Why thank you, old boy, but do tell His Grace that I am extremely busy entertaining his younger brother and do not wish to be disturbed," so I told Renly that I would have to regale him some other time, left Maryam with him, and followed the Stormguard to a small chamber at the back of the hall, behind the Throne, where we found His Grace, Lord Arryn, a wizened septon, and an older, heavyset gentleman wearing the Estermont arms. Stannis waved me up from my bow, dismissed the Stormguard, and got straight down to business, as was his way. "Tell me, Ser Harry," he demanded, fixing me with that stormy glower that was already famous through the Seven Kingdoms, "what do you know of heresy?"

That threw me. I attended Divine Office and did my bit to help my father support the village septon because it was expected of me, but that was as far as my involvement with the Faith went. If there was one thing I _didn't_ want, it was the Seven taking a personal interest in my affairs. "Not much, Your Grace," I replied, using my best 'bluff-and-hearty' voice, the one that makes me sound twenty years older and much more wine-steeped than I actually am. "Don't have much truck with heretics, you see. Don't get many of them around my lands."

Stannis nodded. "Perhaps not," he said, "but our brother Robert's realm of Myr seems to have an infestation of them, according to the High Septon. It seems that the chief septon the Most Devout sent with the Sunset Company, one Jonothor by name, has broken with doctrine regarding," he drew a note out of his pocket, "the sole authority of the Seven, the exclusivity of salvation, the primacy of the Great Sept of Baelor, and a variety of other minor offenses." He pocketed the note. "The High Septon has already ordered this Jonothor's defrocking and excommunication, and commanded him to sail here to stand trial before the Most Devout. Jonothor, it appears, was willing to do so, but Robert prevented him, on the grounds that the government of the Faith in Myr was his prerogative and no one else's." A corner of Stannis's mouth twitched in a slight hint of a smile. "Judging by what reports we have received, Robert has declared that he finds no reason to prevent Jonothor from continuing in his duties as a septon and ordered him to continue in those duties, regardless of the High Septon's commands to the contrary. His Holiness, we are told, was wroth when the news reached him."

I only barely managed to restrain myself from whistling. I had known that Robert was a braw loon, to use the Northern phrase, but never in a hundred years would I have imagined that he would throw down the gauntlet to the Faith. The only king to do that had been Maegor, and things hadn't ended well for him. Even Aerys had never attempted to confront the Faith and he had been literally raving mad by the end, or so I had heard.

"Five days ago," Stannis continued, "we received a petition from His Holiness requesting that we employ every means within our power to bring Jonothor to justice and expunge his heresy, as is our duty under Jaehaerys's law. Now we are fully aware of our duties and obligations, especially to the Faith, but we wish to be certain that we are fully justified in exercising our power in this instance. It would be an ill thing if we were to put a man in peril of his life on groundless charges."

I blinked. "Your pardon, Your Grace, but aren't the charges sufficiently grounded already?" I asked. "I mean, if this Jonothor fellow has already been excommunicated then surely the Most Devout had evidence . . ."

"They did, but it was very poor evidence," said the wizened septon. "The septon they sent to investigate Jonothor's heresy made a terrible hash of his report; any good canon lawyer can poke a dozen holes in the first page alone. No, a proper investigation, starting from first principles, is called for."

"And it were better also that we think carefully before taking any irrevocable measures," Lord Arryn said, looking more like a grumpy old eagle than usual. "Robert holds this Jonothor in very high esteem, we are told. If Robert were to take it into his head that Jonothor was being persecuted to the point of death without cause, all for the sake of the High Septon's bile . . ." He shrugged. "The last time Robert lost someone he cared for, he abdicated the Iron Throne in order to pursue the feud. I doubt he would be able to do something as drastic in this case, but it would be best to take precautions. It is an ill thing when brother fights brother."

Stannis nodded. "Which is why we shall be dispatching a fact-finding mission to Myr, in order to determine for ourselves the nature, extent, and danger of Jonothor's heresy, if it exists, and divine the likely reaction if steps were taken to remove him to King's Landing for trial. Lord Estermont shall head the mission," the heavyset gentleman in the Estermont colors bowed, "and Septon Martyn shall lead the ecclesiastical investigation." As the wizened septon bowed, Stannis turned back to me. "Your part, Ser Harry, will be to investigate the sentiment among the chivalry and common soldiers of the Kingdom of Myr towards Jonothor, with a particular eye towards their likely reaction to his arrest and execution. Given the extent to which Robert's throne rests on his control of his army, it would be foolish to discount that army's sentiments on this matter."

That was probably true, but I really didn't like the direction this conversation had taken. "Me, Your Grace?" I half stammered, trying to make it sound like it was pleased surprise more than shock that was making my voice unsteady. "But I'm a knight, Your Grace, not a, a spy!"

"Spies work clandestinely," Stannis said inexorably. "There will be nothing clandestine about this mission. You will be operating as credentialed emissaries under my seal."

Lord Arryn nodded. "Of a certainty it will be far more overt than your service in Pentos," he chipped in. "No false titles or disguises this time, simply a knight asking questions of other knights out of duty to his king."

I was almost goggle-eyed by now and my heart was fairly in my shoes, but I knew better than to try and point out the dangers. A fellow like me would be expected to have no care for such things, which goes some way to explaining why so many knights find early graves. And Lord Arryn's mention of my Pentoshi service had fairly clinched the deal; the sort of daring fellow who could uncover an assassination plot almost single-handed (barring the involvement of a turncoat or two and a healthy dose of blind luck) wouldn't blink twice at a simple diplomatic mission to a friendly realm. Or at the very least, it would look damnably out of character if he did. So there was nothing for it but to click my heels, bow, and mutter something about humbly accepting this great trust and honor, etc. etc. etc. Gods, the things I've said and done.


	49. Chapter 49: Bonds Forged and Broken

Jaime Lannister tilted his head back and sighed deeply. _This_, he was firmly convinced, was the life.

It was a bright summer's day on the western frontier of the Kingdom of Myr, the breeze off the sea thirty miles distant was keeping the worst of the heat off, and he was the captain-lieutenant of the second cavalry company of the Royal Army of the Kingdom of Myr; which was another way of saying that he commanded fifty of the finest lances in the finest army in the world.

Strictly speaking, of course, his birth entitled him to more, especially since his seven hundred Westerlanders were one of the largest single contingents of Westerosi remaining to the Kingdom of Myr after the Northmen, but he didn't make any bones about it. For one thing, he was aware that the Blackfish still regarded him with a jaundiced eye due to the ambush he had suffered in Pentos, and the disapproval of Ser Brynden Tully was a fearsome thing. For another, he knew that Ned Stark and King Robert viewed him as a potential sword of the kingdom; his captain-lieutenancy was meant to provide him an apprenticeship under Ser Lyn Corbray, who whatever his other faults was an excellent cavalryman, before taking command of his own company.

How long he would enjoy a full captaincy, of course, was open to debate. Strictly speaking his exile had only four years left to run, and his father would be counting the days until his return and his assumption of the heirship to Casterly Rock. The fact that he didn't particularly _want_ to sit in the great hall of the Rock and dispense justice, or preside at tourneys without getting to break a lance himself, or haggle with his bannermen and the burghers of Lannisport, would not enter into the old man's calculations. He was his heir, he could hear his father saying in that grimly final voice of his, and he would inherit the Lordship of Casterly Rock. It was his duty as a Lannister to uphold the family name.

His father, Jaime reflected as he and his men rode down into the shallow valley, had clearly never been young and strong and commanding a half-company of lances on a long patrol along a hostile border. Alright, a _potentially_ hostile border; the Kingdom of Myr was at peace with Tyrosh for the moment. On the other hand, if the Tyroshi chose today to break the Peace of Pentos and began the festivities by ambushing and wiping out a cavalry patrol along the border . . . well, the knowledge that your king would avenge you wouldn't be of much use to your corpse. All the more reason to act as if you were actually at war, and take the appropriate safeguards.

One of which was riding back down the slope towards him, one of the dozen scouts who made up the vanguard of the patrol. Reaching the bottom in a spray of dirt, he trotted up to Jaime and clapped a fist to his breastplate in salute. "Sir, on the next ridge over there is a party of people on foot," he reported. "They appear to be men, for the most part, with a few women, and are in some haste."

"Any armor or weapons?" Jaime asked; weapons might be easily explained, but armor far less so for people evidently intent on crossing the border, which lay along the line of the small river in the next valley over. Armor meant soldiers.

"Only farm implements that we could see, sir," the scout replied. "Hoes and billhooks for the most part. No armor that we could see."

Jaime nodded. "Probably runaway slaves, then," he mused. The Tyroshi border country had been hit hard by the Great Raid, but Corbray hadn't been able to burn out _all_ of the Tyroshi border estates. Those outside his line of march had survived, if they had been able to keep their slaves from rebelling. And even those estates that had been burned out had mostly been reclaimed, either by relatives seeking to restore the family fortunes or by adventurers gambling that peace would allow them to reclaim the rich lands of the borders and leverage them into a ticket into the ranks of the magisters. There had been a steady trickle of runaway slaves since, running the gauntlet of cavalry patrols doing much the same thing he was doing, with the added task of keeping the slaves in line. He turned to Ser Addam Marbrand, who was his second-in-command for this patrol. "Up the ridge, but not over the top yet," he said. "Don't want to spook them into dithering and getting caught on the wrong side of the border."

Addam nodded. "Archers and valets to dismount at the top of the ridge?" he asked.

"No, let's keep everyone mounted for now," Jaime said. "If they're not being pursued after all then there's no point to the men jumping off and on. And if they are being pursued, men on horseback are more intimidating than men on foot, for the most part." Addam nodded agreement; that last was why the City Watch of Lannisport maintained a hundred mounted men, in order to help manage crowds.

Jaime raised his hand and pumped it up and down twice. "Forward at the trot," he called, pitching his voice to reach the rest of the patrol but not carry too far. "Stop just under the ridgeline."

All down the column the spurs went back and the horses spurted forward, nickering in mild remonstrance. The slope was gentle enough, but no one, man or beast, actually _likes_ to run uphill. Upon reaching the ridgeline, Jaime swung down from his horse, handed it off to Harlos, his page, took his far-eye from him with a nod, and poked his head over the top of the ridge to see the people his scouts had mentioned splashing across the small river that marked the border; it was more of a stream really, but it was still one of the larger watercourses in this part of the Disputed Lands. He also saw the party of cavalry under Tyroshi colors that was cresting the far ridgeline. He smirked mirthlessly; he could just imagine the Tyroshi commander's frustration. Here he was, having chased these runaways for gods knew how long, and they had managed to get free and clear through his very fingers. For the terms of the Peace of Pentos were clear; any slave who made it onto Myrish soil of their own free will was then, thenceforth, and forever free. _Free soil makes a man free_, as the saying had become. Of course, whether or not the slaver cities respected that was up to them, and more specifically to their soldiers and agents along the border.

"Come on," Jaime said under his breath, his eye pressed to the lens of his far-eye. "Just let them go, already. They're over the border, there's nothing you can do about it, it's been days since you put your feet up with a decent bottle . . ." Across the valley the Tyroshi captain, easily identifiable by the plumes in his burgonet, waved his arm and his company started down the slope. "Damn," Jaime said softly, striding back to his horse and remounting. "Helmets and lances, gentlemen!" he called as he handed his far-eye to Harlos. His knights and men-at-arms had been riding in almost all their armor, but no one put on their helmets until they had to; wearing several pounds of steel on your head for extended periods of time invariably lead to a splitting headache. Following his own command he took his sallet helm from Harlos, let him do up the laces under his chin, and accepted a lance. Now fully armored and ready to fight, he raised his voice again. "Knights and squires in charge order, archers, valets, and pages stand ready to dismount and support. Over the top and halfway down the slope, then halt." He turned to Addam. "Addam, get those people behind us. I don't want any lack of clarity as to our position."

Addam bared his teeth. "Yes, sir," he replied.

Jaime nodded, then turned towards Dallen, his trumpeter. "Forward at the trot, if you please, as loud as you can." As the brassy notes rang out, the half-company, now arrayed for battle, trotted over the top of the ridge and started down the opposite slope. The runaway slaves, fleeing from armored men behind them and now seeing armored men ahead of them, stopped dead with despairing cries, but Addam spurred forward with his lance, shouting in Low Valyrian for them to get moving and get behind the horses. As the half-company clattered to a halt halfway down the slope, the runaways, starting to realize that they were not to have their throats cut, dashed behind them, one pausing for a moment to point at Jaime's black cloak and battered armor before being hustled along, while across the river the Tyroshi finished reining in in some confusion.

Jaime smiled condescendingly as the Tyroshi sorted themselves out; his men had had rather more impetus behind them thanks to their heavier equipment and they had still managed to keep their alignment both on the move and in the process of halting. Eventually the Tyroshi captain spurred forward, raising his empty hand in token of parley. Jaime turned to Harlos, who had kept at his right hand like a good page. "Tell Ser Addam that he has command until I return from the parley," he said, handing over his lance. At Harlos' nod he walked his horse the rest of the way down the slope, mimicking the Tyroshi captain's gesture as he went, until they met in the middle of the river; there was a ford here, which was part of why Jaime's half-company had been in the area.

"Jaqenno Hotiris," said the Tyroshi, who judging by his accent and his almost womanishly beautiful features was in fact a Lyseni, "captain-lieutenant, red banda of the Ragged Standard, Army of Tyrosh. I believe you have a few things of ours."

"Ser Jaime Lannister, captain-lieutenant, second cavalry company of the Royal Army of Myr," Jaime replied, raising his visor. "And no, we don't. See, they're not yours anymore."

Jaqenno frowned. "Are they not? They are slaves of the magister Donesso Hestaar that do not have his leave to be absent from the estate where they work. We have been trailing them for three days now and have yet to find their collars, so we assume they are still wearing them. That makes them runaway slaves, and ours."

"They're on our side of the border, that makes them free and _ours_," Jaime retorted. "According to the Peace of Pentos anyway, which unless I am mistaken, this Hestaar signed himself on behalf of the Archon."

Jaqenno waved his gauntleted hand. "A technicality that we can surely agree to overlook," he said. "Surely you would not condemn me, a fellow man of arms, to return empty-handed and ashamed by failure?"

"I most certainly would, in order to keep innocent people from being forced back into slavery," Jaime said, sitting back in his saddle. "Surely you would not force _me_ to be ashamed before my men and my king?"

Jaqenno shrugged, no mean feat in armor. "Not willingly," he admitted, "but I am, as they say, a man under authority."

"So am I," Jaime replied. "Of course, if you want to try and take them back by force then I am willing to accept the challenge, and let the Warrior decide."

Jaqenno cast a pawky glance up at Jaime's half-company, almost two hundred and fifty men in full or half-armor, and another back at his own men, almost precisely half that number in lighter armor. "You are pleased to make game of me," he said drily, "but I must decline. Duty prevents me from wasting the lives of my men in a contest I am doomed to lose."

Jaime nodded. "Some other time, perhaps?" he suggested.

"We shall see," Jaqenno replied. "All things are in the hands of the gods." He bowed shortly in the saddle. "The sele of the day to you, ser."

"And to you," Jaime said courteously, noting with some admiration how good Jaqenno's control was. If he had been bearded by a boy several years his junior he would have been furious. Reining his horse around, he cantered back up the slope, gesturing for the half-company to turn about and ride back over the ridge. As he resumed his place in the column, he passed by the new freedmen, who seemed to have realized that they were to be free after all. A few were dancing as they walked, one or two were weeping openly, and a few had their hands raised in prayer and were noisily calling down the blessings of various gods. One brawny fellow with the arms and shoulders of a blacksmith, spying Jaime, raised his folded hands in salute.

"Black Lion!" he shouted in thickly accented Low Valyrian. "Black Lion and freedom!" As the other freedmen took up the shout Jaime raised a hand in acknowledgement, smiling broadly as he did so. He had first heard men cheer his father at the age of five, during some celebration or other. But he had never heard his father cheered as the freedmen were cheering him now.

XXX

As the door to his private chambers creaked open, the pirate-lord all but leaped to his feet, a genuine smile lighting up his face as he raised his arms. "Davos, my old," he cried genially, striding forward to meet his guest. "It has been too long, far too long."

"You always were a flatterer, Salladhor," Davos replied, meeting the pirate-lord's embrace with one of his own. "It's only been five months since our paths crossed."

"Ah, but between friends, the pain of separation is increased by the love they bear for each other." Salladhor said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Do you not find it so with your wife?"

Davos waggled his eyebrows. "Why do you think we have four sons?" he asked rhetorically, provoking a belly-laugh from his host. They made for an odd pair, the pirate-lord and the smuggler, sharing only their slender builds and the wrinkles common to every seaman the world over. Salladhor Saan was almost compulsively flamboyant, as seen by the fact that on an evening when he was not holding court among his crew or officially receiving guests he was wearing an exquisitely tailored suit of crimson velvet intricately embroidered with gold thread. By contrast, Davos's trews, shirt, tunic, and mantle were all of the sort you might find on a minor tradesman who was making ends meet with not much to spare, being simply and sturdily made out of unadorned broadcloth. Where Salladhor was handsome, graceful, suave, and courtly in his manners, Davos was as plain of face as he was of speech and habitually walked with the rolling gait of a lifelong sailor. Even the room they were standing in highlighted the differences between them. Davos' cabin on the _Shadow_ was spare and very plainly furnished, but Salladhor's private study was almost the perfect definition of a rich pirate's lair. The hide of a great snow bear served as a rug, the walls were hung with Myrish tapestries, the desk was a massive specimen of its kind liberally bedecked with Qohorik carvings, and the quill with which Salladhor had been writing had originally graced the wing of a Sothoryan parrot.

Yet despite their differences, or perhaps because of them, Salladhor and Davos were not simply business partners, but good friends. As proved when Salladhor gestured at his butler, who had continued to stand in the doorway. "Bring wine and food, man!" he cried. "And girls, too! Only the best for my friend!" He cocked an eyebrow at Davos. "You still prefer girls, yes?"

"I do, but I'm afraid that I'm here on business, not pleasure," Davos replied regretfully. "And it's the sort of business that cannot be discussed where other ears can hear it."

Salladhor searched Davos' face for a moment, and then turned back to his butler. "Leave us," he commanded, suddenly serious. "And let none disturb us until we call." As the butler bowed away and closed the door after himself, Davos and Salladhor sat down on a pair of richly upholstered chairs that Salladhor had taken from a Volantene pleasure barge. "Is it that you have found a score that you need help mastering, my friend?" Salladhor asked. "Speak, and we shall find a way to make it possible."

"I have a score all right," Davos answered, "but it's one of the easiest I've ever come across. My employer handed it to me himself."

Salladhor's eyebrows shot up towards his hairline. "Employer?" he asked delicately.

Davos nodded. "I am instructed to convey to you the warm regards and great esteem of His Grace King Robert of Myr."

Salladhor nodded back. "Ah, so," he said wonderingly. "Sits the wind in that corner, then, my old?"

"It does," Davos replied, reaching into a pocket of his tunic. "If I had my way, I'd have stayed out of it, and if Ironmaker had lived he might have let me, but Victarion Greyjoy insisted on introducing me to King Robert. And let me tell you, my friend, when an Ironborn captain half again your size puts his hand on your shoulder and says he will introduce you to his king, you get introduced to his king." As Salladhor chuckled at the mental image thus invoked, Davos drew out a scroll. "I was also instructed to convey this to you," he went on, handing it over. "A King's Commission, declaring you and your ships to be a detached auxiliary squadron of the Royal Fleet of Myr."

Salladhor shook his head pityingly as he accepted the scroll. "Davos, my old, you of all people should know that I have sworn to be no man's servant, while I can yet sail a ship and swing a sword."

"Less a servant and more an ally, in this case," Davos said, nodding to acknowledge the point. "In the event of war against Lys or Tyrosh, or both, you would be requested to do all in your power to harm their shipping and their commerce. You and your ships would be able to reprovision in Myrish ports, call on other ships of the Royal Fleet for aid, and keep all the legitimate plunder you take."

Salladhor raised an eyebrow. "Is it to be war, then?" he asked.

Davos spread his hands. "My friend, you know as well as I that the Peace of Pentos is no more meant to be a permanent peace than it is meant to turn lead into gold. The insults and the wounds there go too deep for any piece of paper to heal, much less one that King Robert was all but forced into signing. He wears the coins that Donesso and Brachio gave him in reparation on a chain around his neck, you know, to remind himself of the insult they offered to him."

Salladhor nodded. "And in return for my aid, Robert requires what?"

"Only that you free every slave you currently hold," Davos replied, "and transport any slaves you take from the enemy to Myr for emancipation."

Salladhor tapped the scroll against his chin for a moment, then tossed it on the small table between them and stood. "Come, my friend, and read a chart with me," he invited, going over to his desk and pulling a chart from a nearby rack. As Davos joined him he unrolled it to show the southern Narrow Sea. "Consider my position, here, my old," he said rhetorically. "To the west I have the Seven Kingdoms, to whom I am naught but a slave-taking pirate. To the north and the northeast I have the Braavosi, who would gladly keelhaul me under my own ship before hanging my carcass from the Titan's kilt by the ankles. In Myr I have a pack of fanatics who, for the dubious benefit of their friendship, demand that I surrender a sizable percentage of my wealth and forswear any chance of recovering it. In Tyrosh and Lys, on the other hand, I have old foes who would like very much to hang me, but who may swallow their distaste when they remember the strength of my ships and the skill of my men." He spread his hands. "What is a poor corsair to do in such a situation? I ask you to set aside your prejudice against slavery, my friend, and answer dispassionately."

Davos shrugged. "I would still counsel you to ally with the Kingdom of Myr," he said. "King Robert is not a man of business, as we are, but he is a man of his word. Unlike some in Tyrosh and Lys that I could name, like that one harbormaster."

"May he rot in the deepest of your seven hells with worms gnawing his balls," Salladhor said, his mellifluous voice darkening. He and Davos had both lost a great deal of money on account of that harbormaster. "But at least the Archon and the Conclave will not demand that I beggar myself for the privilege of becoming an isolated and unsupported ally. If I declare for the Kingdom of Myr," he gestured at the chart again, "then I place myself in a ring of mortal enemies, of which at least two-thirds know these islands as intimately as you and I. Whereas if I cast my lot with Lys and Tyrosh, then I will secure my position in these islands for some time yet. Even if the Braavosi fleet sails south to sweep the seas, I much doubt that they will be able to defeat Lys, Tyrosh, and myself, all at the same time."

"They might still win, though," Davos said. "And if Lys and Tyrosh can gain a peace by throwing you to the Braavosi, you know they will. They've suffered your raids as much as the Braavosi have."

"A chance I am willing to take, knowing coves and bays that even the Braavosi do not," Salladhor said. "And if I were to cast my lot with King Robert and accept impoverishment, what would he do if the Braavosi demanded my head in return for their continued support of his treasury? He might swear an oath to me if I become his man, but he would still have an oath to his people." He shook his head. "I am not the most merciful of men, but I am merciful enough to spare a man that decision."

Davos nodded slowly. Put that way he could certainly see Salladhor's logic, even if it burned at him to admit it. "This is your final answer then?" he asked.

"It is," Salladhor replied, his face sad. "I am sorry, my old, but we must choose different roads henceforth."

Davos nodded again. "If you're ever captured," he said, "I'll testify on your behalf. I don't have much influence, but Victarion and his Ironborn owe me a debt for guiding Ironmaker's fleet to them, and Ser Gerion Lannister has acknowledged that the Crown also owes me for that."

Salladhor laughed, half in genuine amusement and half in bitterness. "Ye of little faith," he said jestingly. "Am I not Salladhor Saan, the prince of the Narrow Sea, who was dodging or slaying his pursuers before he had hair on his balls?"

"You are, but times are changing, Salladhor," Davos said earnestly. "I first felt it on Bloodstone when I stood before Ironmaker, and again when the Ironborn fought the Tyroshi fleet. There's a new wind brewing, and unless we trim our sails to ride it we'll get driven under."

Salladhor shrugged. "Then I will die as I have lived, a free sailor and no man's servant," he said simply. "In any case, if I did not make a habit of rolling the dice, I would still be a deckhand, and not the master of twenty keels with a name known from White Harbor to Astapor. I will take my chances." He extended his hand to Davos. "Will you accept my hospitality for the night at least, before sailing back to Myr?"

"Of course," Davos said, taking his old friend's hand in a firm clasp, blinking back a sudden itch in his eyes. "If this is to be our last night as friends, then let us celebrate old times before we part ways."

"Spoken like a true brother of the coast," Salladhor said, clapping Davos on the shoulder.


	50. Chapter 50: Peace was Never an Option

Lyn Corbray prided himself on having a strong stomach. Well, if you wanted to be a knight you had to be able to ignore the smell of freshly-spilled blood and the even worse smell of perforated bowels. Nor could you let the sight of what lay under a man's skin put you off your stride. Not if you wanted to keep your own guts where they belonged, anyway. There was a reason that knights, and other men-at-arms, tended to a certain hard-edged indifference to carnage.

That being said, there were certain things that could make even the staunchest stomach rebel. For instance, the scene that Lyn and his half-company had found while on patrol.

It wasn't the scale of the massacre that was making veteran knights hurriedly dismount and bend over; as far as Lyn could tell, there were thirteen or fourteen corpses clustered in the little swale and no more. Nor was it the fact that they had all, quite obviously, died extremely violent deaths; men who had fought at Tara, the Siege of Myr, the Great Raid, and Narrow Run were no strangers to the forms that violent death took. Even the smell wasn't as bad as any of those battles; fourteen corpses just didn't compare to several thousand, even after a day and a half in the slightly damp heat of the Disputed Lands in high summer.

But even a man who had been disemboweled was still more or less in one piece. The people who had been killed here in this nameless little depression in the grasslands along the border had not just been killed, but _savaged_, so that of the thirteen or fourteen dead bodies, not one of them was intact. Lyn swallowed his gorge with some difficulty and turned to Ser Joren Potts, who had been posted to his company a month after the war as part of Stark and Tully's reorganization of the army. The fresh-faced younger knight was almost as cold-blooded as Lyn himself was sometimes, but he had soft spots still. Lyn could tell.

"Runaway slaves, I imagine," he said, forcing his voice to remain level; it would not do for his men to see him undone. One of the pillars on which their esteem of him rested, after all, was his ability to keep his countenance even under such conditions as these.

Joren nodded jerkily. "Some of them are still wearing collars," he said woodenly, gesturing at one corpse that had kept its head. "Tyroshi patrol must have followed them over the border, caught up to them."

Lyn gave his own nod. "They fought back though," he said, gesturing at a severed arm lying near his charger's left fore-hoof. "See there, the cuts along the forearm and the broken nails? Whoever that belonged to went hand-to-hand against someone with a weapon. That must have made them angry."

"And they vented that anger on their victims," Joren finished, staring fixedly at the beheaded corpse of a woman; Lyn followed his gaze and hurriedly looked away. He knew himself to be a hard man, but the ruin between that corpse's legs was not something that he needed in his memories. Joren signed himself with the seven-pointed star, his hand shaking. "Father have mercy, Mother have mercy," he said, his voice starting to tremble. "I thought I knew what the slavers were like after the coast, but this . . ."

"Was probably the work of an exile banda," Lyn said, interrupting Joren before he began to babble. "Sellswords might have committed the rape, but not the dismemberment; their pay isn't based on how many pieces they cut their victims into and cutting people apart like this is hard to do, both for the muscles and the mind. If anything, they would have cut off their heads to take them back and show that their work was done." Lyn shook his head. "This wasn't done by professionals; this is amateur's work." As Lyn spoke a vulture began to glide downwards towards the pile of bodies, and was shot out of the sky by an archer who proceeded to march over to the avian's carcass and retrieve his arrow with rather more force than was strictly necessary, casting aspersions on the vulture's parentage, diet, and sexual preferences as he did so.

Joren gulped noisily, twice, and then visibly mastered himself. "I'll organize a party of archers to dig a grave for these people," he said hoarsely. "We don't have a septon with us, but we can spare them from the scavengers at least."

Lyn nodded. "Make it so, on my authority," he said in his command voice; he didn't hold much with sentiment, but there was something to be said for not giving the predators around here a free supper. The Disputed Lands had been long-settled, but along the borders the population had been kept relatively light by the wars, with the result that the borderlands were rich with game, and the predators who fed both on them and the corpses that the wars left behind. The wolves here were not as large as they were in the Vale, Lyn would swear, but he had never seen wolves with less fear of men. "In the meanwhile, I will be writing a report to King Robert. He must know of this."

XXX

The four Tyroshi captains were well pleased with themselves as they sat in the private room of the Pied Merlin, the finest tavern and boardinghouse on the Myrish waterfront. They had taken a gamble on being the first Tyroshi merchants to breach the unofficial embargo that had been placed upon the Kingdom of Myr by the Archon and the Lyseni conclave, and so far that gamble was paying off handsomely. They had received permission to trade from Lord Captain of the Port Franlan, their cargoes were all safely warehoused, and they were already receiving handsome offers for their dyes, pear brandy, and mechanical devices and curios. They had, they agreed over bowls of rich seafood stew and glasses of quite good wine, done well to remember that, despite the war and the grudges it had spawned, business was business.

Of course, they still had to take precautions. Ordinarily they would have eaten in the common room to spare their purses the expense of a private room, but they had received enough black looks from the populace to decide to keep out of sight as much as possible. Even a tavern with a repute as good as the Pied Merlin produced drunkards and men flown with drink were far more prone to violence than men in full possession of their reason. But all in all, they had been pleasantly surprised; far from the seething cesspool of the unchained rabble barely held in check by Andal slayers that Rumor had portrayed, Myr city was almost as busy and vibrant as it had been before the siege and sack. The rules of the great game of trade had changed of course, but it seemed that there was still room for sensible and rational men of business to make a living, or even a fortune.

Their good humor was put to a sudden end when the door slammed open and six heavily armored men, two belted knights and four men-at-arms, strode in. One of the captains stood from his chair and blustered a demand for an explanation, only to have one of the men-at-arms put his hands on his shoulders and drive him back down onto his chair so hard that his buttocks were bruised. The other three captains, seeing their fellow thusly manhandled, remained in their seats and kept their hands in plain view, carefully not reaching for their eating knives. Whatever this was, they thought among themselves, it was surely something that could be settled without any bloodshed. They were in a public place after all, and the Kingdom of Myr prided itself on the strength of its laws.

These hopes were substantially deflated by the arrival of a seventh man in heavy armor, whose white surcoat with its grey direwolf sigil was pinned at the shoulder with a brooch in the shape of a clenched gauntlet. There were _stories_ about Lord Eddard Stark, and the liberties that King Robert allowed his Fist.

"By order of His Grace King Robert," Lord Stark proclaimed in a terribly final voice, "you men are under arrest."

"On what grounds?" the captain who had tried to stand demanded to know as he tried to sit as lightly as possible.

"On the grounds that nine days ago, fourteen citizens of this kingdom were massacred by a Tyroshi cavalry patrol," Lord Stark replied, fixing each of the captains with his iron-eyed glower. "His Grace has already sent to Tyrosh demanding that the guilty ones be handed over to face the Crown's justice. In the meantime, you and your men will be lodged in the Palace of Justice as guests of His Grace. In order to pay for your maintenance, your cargos will be impounded and sold at public auction; any monies not so used by the time of your release will be disbursed to you."

The three elder captains looked at each other and shrugged. On the face of it, it wasn't the worst proposition in the world. At least there was a chance for them to make _some _money out of this sudden misfortune; their goods were not being seized as much as held in trust, when looked at from a certain point of view. More importantly, it seemed they weren't to be killed out of hand. The presence of the King's Fist was as good an indication as any that they were being viewed as enemies of the Kingdom of Myr, but apparently the sword was merely being loosened in its scabbard, not drawn and swung.

"The hell you say!" the fourth and youngest of the captains suddenly blurted out, surging half to his feet before the man-at-arms standing behind him drove him back down into his seat. "This is barefaced theft!" he spluttered, heedless of the gauntlets holding his shoulders. "Is your king so craven he must send his dog to do his stealing for him?!"

"Damn it, Laziros, shut up!" said one of the other three captains, who turned to Lord Stark. "I apologize for my brother-in-law, Lord Stark. He is too easily angered."

"Evidently," Lord Stark said calmly. "Your apology is accepted. And your dinners are paid for; I shall make arrangements with the keeper. Now, gentles, if you will come with us, we have a carriage waiting for you."

Laziros opened his mouth again, only shutting it after his brother-in-law seized his wrist in an iron grip and joined the other two captains in glaring him into deflating. Slowly the four captains stood from their chairs, allowing their captors to take the swordbelts that they had hung on the backs of their chairs, and followed Lord Stark through the busily murmuring common room out to the carriage.

XXX

The Archon of Tyrosh kept his expression carefully neutral as the herald finished reading out the demand from King Robert. One of the burdens of being a ruler, of any stripe, was that one was more or less barred from showing strong emotion in public, in order to maintain the dignity of one's office.

His councilors had fewer such inhibitions. No sooner had the Archon waved the herald out of the room than Councilor Varoros slammed his fist on the table. "By the gods, the impertinence," the white-haired old battler spat, his lined face a picture of barely-restrained anger. "That an upjumped, beer-swilling barbarian whoremonger should speak to men such as us as if we were slaves, to bend over on command."

"He might simply be posturing," said Councilor Jaqaquo. "I have dealt with Andals in positions of power before and every one of them was simply enamored of theatrics."

"You don't carve out a kingdom at the sword's edge by theatrics," replied Councilor Stallar, before turning towards the Archon. "My lord, I fear that we must take King Robert at his word," he said earnestly. "And unless we are entirely ready to accept the wager of battle, we should give serious consideration to meeting his demands."

Varoros glared at his fellow councilor. "Have you lost your balls?" he demanded bluntly. "Or are you that eager to bare your arse to the barbarians? My lord," he went on, turning to the Archon as Stallar purpled in rage, "throw their herald out, I beg you. Or better yet, send him back to the barbarians in a coffin. We are not bound to follow the conventions of diplomacy when dealing with people who break them so readily."

"Are you finally losing your wits along with the last of your teeth?" Councilor Innennos spat. "The Andals hate us already. If we kill a herald under flag of truce, then they will sow this city with _salt_."

"Assuming that they take the city at all," Varoros snapped. "I have more faith in our army and our fleet than to consider that a possibility."

Stallar was on the verge of exploding into fury when the Archon, having made up his mind, raised his hand, stilling all conversation. Even Varoros sat back in his chair. "Gentlemen," the Archon began, "we find ourselves in a quandary. On the one hand we are threatened with the loss of our lives and our property, which we must by no means risk lightly. We each of us have a duty to our sons and grandsons to leave them a patrimony as great as that which our fathers and grandfathers gave to us. On the other hand, we are threatened with the loss of our honor, which is the greater danger. We know well, gentlemen, what the Kingdom of Myr intends to do to us, in the fullness of time. Is there any man here who truly believes, in his heart of hearts, that to yield to the barbarians will do more than whet their appetites for ever more of our lifeblood?"

Every man around the table shook their heads. They had heard the reports of their spies in the Kingdom of Myr, especially those who managed to listen in on the conversations of the Kingdom's infernal Legion. They made for chilling reading. Even worse had been the stories of the Sack of Myr, and especially the barbarities that had taken place in the Palace of Order. There were families, the Archon knew, who had sworn to either die fighting or else commit collective suicide in order to forestall being victimized as the Myrish had been.

The Archon shook his own head. "Beyond even the loss of our honor," he continued, "is the loss of the fear our slaves have for us that would result from a surrender to the barbarians. I pray, gentlemen, that none of us here are so foolish as to believe that our slaves obey our commands out of love for us. No, if they obey it is because they fear, and rightly, the punishments our law prescribes for a rebellious slave. But if we once give them cause to doubt our firmness and our courage, then that doubt will be as a spray of embers cast upon damp tinder. The majority may extinguish themselves and never take hold, but some few will find a dry place, and the tinder will begin to smolder. And we will be forced to run from ember to ember, stamping them out one by one as the smoke rises, all the while praying that we never miss even one, lest the whole pile of tinder burst into flame beneath our feet."

The Archon swept his councilors with a steely gaze. "Therefore," he said, "we are not only well-advised, but compelled to defy King Robert's demand, and pray that it is the bluff it appears to be. It is true, that our defiance may provoke a war that will destroy us. But if we bend the knee to his demands, then we will have traded a quick and clean death by the sword for a slow and inglorious end, wasting away like a pox victim, until we die, raving and impotent, overwhelmed by corruption." The Archon raised a clenched fist. "If we must fall, gentlemen," he said, his voice building, "then let us fall like men!"

The councilors, their bickering swept aside by having their choices laid out for them so starkly, thumped the table in the traditional symbol of agreement and acclamation.

_The defiance of the Tyroshi reached Myr a sennight later and sparked an immediate response. The ravens flew that very evening, summoning the Royal Army to its assembly areas. For the third time in as many years, war had come to the Disputed Lands._

\- _Chasing Dragons: The Sunset Company Reexamined_ by Maester Hendricus, published 1539 AC


	51. Chapter 51: Reasons to Live and to Fight

Wolf House, as Lord and Lady Stark's manse in Myr city was known, was cheerful enough as official residences went. It was sparsely decorated, thanks to Lord Eddard's spartan tastes and Lady Amarya's frugality, but it made up for the lack of ornament with a reputation for hospitality; the two parties that the Starks had officially hosted, one for the Northmen that had followed Maege Mormont back to Essos and another for the officers of the local companies of the Iron Legion, had been great successes, and the rumors had spread in the telling.

Today however the cheerfulness had vanished. The army was assembling to march for the border, and the King's Fist was in the final stages of preparing to take leave of his wife. The whole house seemed to have caught the grim mood, but nowhere more so than in the solar where Lord Stark was arming.

Saul tightened the last strap on Eddard's armor, ran a buffing cloth over the surface of the metal to remove any smudges from his fingers, swiped a minute flake of dust from one of the linked steel plates of Eddard's sword belt, and stepped back. "All well, my lord?" he asked.

Eddard slowly swung his arms in exaggerated circles, raised his knees up towards his chest, and twisted and bent at the waist, the plates of his armor sliding over each other with a metallic rustling. "Very well indeed," he replied. "Thank you, Saul."

Saul, already armored in brigandine, plate arm and leg harness, and a gorget, bowed his head and reached for Eddard's arming cap; Eddard forestalled him with a gesture. "The rest can wait," he said, "we'll not be fighting today." Saul nodded and tucked Eddard's arming cap and gauntlets into his bascinet, snatched up his own half-helm and gauntlets, and bowed his way out of the room. As he did so, Amarya rose from her chair by the window and joined Eddard in the center of the room, where she drew a brown lace out of her pocket and began to wrap it around Eddard's left rerebrace.

"Remember when we first met?" she asked with a slight smile as she tied off the knot that would hold it in place.

Eddard nodded. "As one who was walking in darkness remembers first seeing the light," he said, taking his wife's hands. "I thought it made me a better warrior, to have nothing to live for beyond vengeance," he went on, running his thumb over Amarya's wedding ring. "But if that is so, then why is my arm stronger and my sword swifter at the thought of never seeing you again?"

Amarya's eyes searched Eddard's face. "Perhaps because now you have a reason not only to not die, but to live," she replied. "And with it, the hope that there may be a life for you after the death of the Targaryens."

"Or perhaps the songs are right in this much, that love makes a man better than he was before," Eddard said, meeting Amarya's gaze. "The gods know that I have slept better in your arms than I ever did before, since the rebellion." He drew his wife into a careful embrace; the strength of his arms and the rigidity of his breastplate meant that it would not be difficult for him to accidentally crack Amarya's ribs. It was one of the downsides of knightly training that the strength to wield sword and lance through a long day of fighting was also the sort of strength that made it easy to break things if you weren't careful.

"I will return," he said when he finally broke the embrace. "And if any damned slavers try to stop me, they will not live to regret it."

Amarya smiled. "Oh, I am sure that they will regret it," she said, a slight edge of humor in her voice. "Briefly, perhaps, but no less deeply." After she and Eddard had stopped chuckling, she raised a hand to her husband's face, her expression turning grave. "Safe into battle, safe out of battle," she intoned softly, "and safe return from the strife. Come back to me, love."

"Though all the hells bar the way," Eddard replied, raising Amarya's hand to his lips and kissing her wedding ring.

XXX

Daario Naharis blew his lips out in a sigh of relief. He had been assured that the fleet could fight off any attempt by the Ironborn to interdict the passage of the soldiers stationed on Tyrosh isle to the mainland, but he had still spent the short voyage in a state of nervousness. He had been a sellsword for twelve years now, and one of the lessons that had been engraved on his heart in letters of steel in those years was to never take an assurance at face value. Only fellow members of the company were exempted from that mandate of skepticism.

Fortunately, the fleet had kept its word, and the passage from Tyrosh isle to Aesica had been unmolested by the Myrish navy. The need to keep a substantial garrison on the isle had reduced the number of reinforcements that could be sent to the mainland, but even with that limitation Daario had three thousand infantry under his hand, half of them newly landed from Tyrosh isle, along with a thousand cavalry. Those had already been waiting for him on the fields outside Aesica; cavalry needed space and grazing, neither of which was possible to find on the island of Tyrosh, covered from shore to shore as it was by the city.

Daario tore his eyes away from the organized chaos of the encamped army and turned his gaze inland. _Five days to raise, organize, and transport the forces from the isle, _he mused, remembering the haste and tumult of those days; he had not slept more than three or four hours a night in all that time. _A day or two to land those forces and integrate them with the ones already here. Eight or nine days to march from Aesica to Alalia, picking up militia and regular companies along the way and meeting the Ragged Standard at Alalia. And then six or seven days to the border. Barring unforeseen setbacks,_ he spat aside and touched the wood of his saddle's pommel reflexively, _we should be over the border on the thirty-third day of the war at the latest. Not bad._ Hard luck on the border estates, who would have no defense against any invaders for at least two or three days according to the most favorable calculations of the Archon's logisticians, but the interior, with its broad-acred farms that fed the city, the mines that fueled its workshops, and the seaport towns that funneled the raw materials of the mainland to Tyrosh isle, would be protected.

And that was the overarching impulse behind Daario's orders as Captain-General of the Army of Tyrosh. _Protect the interior. If you can trap the Myrish army and destroy it, then by all means, but hold them at bay if it is the last thing you do._ The Archon and his Council had decided to adopt a conservative strategy against the Kingdom of Myr. The political situation of the Kingdom of Myr, it had been explained to Daario, was such that in order to maintain internal stability it had to push ever further outwards to conquer new territories in the name of abolition. If that impulse to foreign conquest was successfully stymied, then it was entirely possible that the Kingdom of Myr could fall apart in fratricidal recriminations over King Robert's failure to uphold his coronation oath to destroy slavery. If that came to pass, then steps could be taken to exploit the divisions, but in order to bring those divisions about the Kingdom of Myr had to be defeated, the more resoundingly the better.

Daario pursed his lips, remembering the ferocity of the combat at Tara, where all his old notions about combat had been stood on their heads. _A fine thing to say, 'defeat the enemy',_ he thought to himself. _But no one ever seems to consider that the enemy gets a say in the matter._ He would do his utmost, of course, that went without saying. And not simply out of professional pride, either; he had forsworn his allegiance to Tyrosh when he took up the life of a sellsword, but the past several months had rekindled his fondness for his homeland. He had a respectable army to do that utmost with, he had a moderately formidable ally in the Lyseni who were supposed to draw off forces from any invading army by harrying the southern frontier of the Kingdom of Myr, and he had a decent strategic position to work with. But for all that, he couldn't help but feel a trickle of foreboding from worming into his guts.

Especially since he had never played for stakes this high before, with his own money or anyone else's. In the Stormcrows he had been only a lieutenant, if a senior and influential lieutenant; he had never commanded more than a hundred men at once. Now he was set to command anywhere from ten to fifteen _thousand_ men, with a kingdom for the stakes. Victory would propel him to heights he had never dreamed of ascending, but if he lost . . . there were plenty of men in Tyrosh, powerful and influential men, who would happily see him disemboweled for being promoted over the heads of men who had never wavered in their loyalty to the city. Councilor Varoros, for one, had publicly averred that nothing good could come of entrusting the defense of the city to an upjumped sellsword who had only lately rediscovered his loyalty to the city that had birthed him.

Daario spat aside again. _Fuck you too, councilor,_ he thought viciously. _As if I didn't have enough problems with the enemy._

Of course, if he won then Varoros would have to eat his words, without salt. If he lost, however, he would be the man who had pissed away the main army of the city and almost certainly lost it the war. Tyrosh had other forces than the ones under Daario's command, but very few that could actually take the field. The towns required substantial garrisons in order to be able to hold the walls against a siege and the streets against the slaves, while every estate owner on the mainland howled as long and as loud as he could for frequent and strong patrols across their lands to keep their slaves in line. For all practical purposes, Daario's army was the only one Tyrosh had and if he lost it there would not be another one for at least a year, if not two or three years.

Daario shook his head forcefully, trying to drive the thoughts out of his head. _Just do all you can and let Lady Fortune handle the rest, old son,_ he reminded himself. But he still couldn't make the hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach go away.

XXX

_The following is an excerpt from _Flash for the Faith! _by George Dand_

The voyage to Myr went well enough, largely thanks to the fact that I've never been prone to seasickness and the captain kept a reasonably good table. Lord Estermont was a decent sort, one of your bluff, hearty fellows who get more expansive in physique and manner as they age; Lord Estermont being fifty years old, he was a barrel-chested ogre of a man with a booming laugh and a handshake like a vise. Septon Martyn I found less congenial; he was the sort of person who knows that he is the smartest person in any given room on his particular subject and can't help but demonstrate it when given occasion. If he hadn't been such a decent fellow, and if he hadn't had such a good sense of humor, I'd have been sorely tempted to kick him overboard. Not that I would have anyway; I didn't know what his history was, but any man with the credentials to get sent on a mission like this was sure to have friends in high places who would take a very sharply pointed interest if he came to an unexplained end.

In any case we landed in Myr city only to find that Robert and Septon Jonothor had both gone. It seemed that in the time we had been crossing the Narrow Sea war had broken out between the Kingdom of Myr on one side and Tyrosh on the other, with Lys supposedly set to join the Tyroshi due to their treaty. Robert was marching south-east to muster an army at the town of Sirmium, and Jonothor had gone with him to minister to the Seven-worshippers among the troops. Ser Gerion Lannister, who as Hand of the King had been left in command in Robert's absence, invited us to take up lodging in the Palace of Justice, but Lord Estermont wouldn't hear it. "What," he had bellowed, "loll at my ease while my grandson faces the enemy?! Be damned if I will! Follow me, sers!" Not three hours later we had acquired horses (of indifferent quality it must be said; all the good ones had gone with the army) and were clattering out of the gates onto the road.

Say what you like about Lord Estermont, he could shift when he had a mind to; we must have covered twenty miles that day alone, and for each of the nine days afterward we averaged fifteen or twenty miles, riding at the trot for an hour and then walking for an hour to give our horses a breather. By the time we reached Sirmium I was worn almost to a nub from fatigue; how Septon Martyn endured it I can't imagine, unless the gods had decided to give one of their own a helping hand. Even Lord Estermont was looking a little grey around the gills. Even so, he still had enough energy to roar introductions at the sentries who challenged our approach and demand to be taken to see Robert immediately. I suppose going to fat around the middle gives you some reserves to draw on.

The sentries were a suspicious lot, infantry in heavy spearman's kit and evidently keenly aware of their responsibilities. Only their corporal was able to read Common Tongue and that slowly, but he managed to puzzle through the letter from King Stannis establishing our bonafides and told off a pair of his men to escort us; as we left some wag among the sentries shouted "Enjoy the show!" to which Lord Estermont asked him what the devil he meant only to be waved off with a "You'll see!" And by the gods we didn't have to wait long to see what he meant, though we heard it long before we saw it. First it was a sporadic braying of trumpets and lowing of horns, then a thunder of hooves and a rumble of marching feet, and then we topped the rise to see one of the most fearsome spectacles of our time, the drawn sword of abolition and the terror of the slaver cities: the Iron Legion.

Now in my time, I've had to become something of a connoisseur of armies (not by choice, mark you; if I had my way, I'd never have left the Crownlands), and I've never succumbed to the belief that some breeds of men make naturally better soldiers. As Stannis himself once put it, there are no bad soldiers, only bad captains. So when I say that the Grand Army of Volantis was bigger, the Great Armament more awe-inspiring in its way, and that there's a special place in my nightmares for the sight of thirty thousand Dothraki screamers at the charge, you can take it as the sober and considered opinion of an (unwilling) expert. But for sheer military power I've seen nothing outside Westeros or Braavos and damned little in them to match the Iron Legion. It wasn't a question of numbers; as far as I know, the Iron Legion never mustered more than thirty thousand foot and ten thousand horse in one place. Nor was it a matter of visual splendor; the Iron Legion was one of the drabbest armies I have ever seen. What really took my breath away was the discipline and the systematic order of them; every man wore near enough to the same equipment, depending on what class of soldier they were, as made no difference, they stood in close-ordered ranks and marched in step, and every mess group of every company moved in almost perfect unison at the word of command, like bees in a swarm or swallows in a flock. The Iron Legion wasn't a collection of lordly retinues, urban militias, and sellsword bands, each with their own allegiances, rivalries, and agendas, like most armies in the world, they were something entirely different. What we were looking at was more than a hundred mechanisms bound in nigh-perfect obedience into a single machine, obedient to a single brain and driven by a single force. _This_, we would come to realize, was an _army._

The first thing I thought when I made sense of what I was seeing was 'Thank all the gods we don't have slavery in Westeros, because we'd never be able to beat this lot.' Even after more than forty years there are a score of images in my head from that field as fresh as if I saw them yesterday: a company of lances wheeling at the canter with not a single horse more than an inch out of alignment that I could see; a hundred or so longbowmen shooting cheap clay saucers out of the air like ducks for the pot before turning on the butts and loosing a scorcher of a volley that turned every bulls-eye into a hedgehog; a banda of light horse transitioning from loose scouting order to close ranks at a single trumpet call; and most terrifying of all, a heavy infantry company deploying from column of march to line of battle without missing a step, the spearmen crouching down and shuffling forward as the crossbows loosed over their advancing heads into a double row of wooden dummies, and then at the shriek of a whistle the spearmen rearing up and plunging forward with a roar of "Free or dead!" to overrun the dummies with spears flashing and damn me if their ranks weren't as straight as a carpenter's rule even at the charge, the shields a perfect wall of iron-rimmed wood tipped with a hedge of spear-points.

Next to me Lord Estermont was signing himself with the seven-pointed star with a dumbstruck expression on his face, while Septon Martyn's jaw was gaping open as he stared. I don't know what they were thinking, but I was thinking that I wouldn't give a single clipped penny for Tyrosh's chances if they tried to fight this crowd. If the companies I was seeing at drill here were representative of the whole army and if they worked together as well as they did alone, then the Tyroshi would get eaten alive. The second thing I thought was that it didn't matter what Septon Martyn found regarding Jonothor's heresy, we'd never be able to try him for it unless Robert let us. So long as Robert protected him, and had this army to back him up, Jonothor was as safe as any man in the world.

I should have remembered that naming calls; no sooner had I had that thought than the man himself came cantering up. Well, I suppose if you see your grandfather's banner unexpectedly you tend to drop whatever you're doing and find out what brought him this far east. As Robert and Lord Estermont shook hands and roared jovial greetings at each other I couldn't help but be struck by Robert's appearance. Handsome he undoubtedly was, a proper maiden's fantasy, but I never saw a king so plainly dressed. If it weren't for the gold circlet around his head, the surcoat over his half-armor with the black crowned stag on yellow, and the two coins strung around his neck, you'd have thought he was a well-to-do landed knight, not a king. At the time I figured that the plainness of Robert's wardrobe was due to spending all his money on his army, but later I learned that it was part of his legend and theory of kingship. A king, he was of the opinion, only needed the full fig of royal regalia if he couldn't command the respect and admiration of his people with his deeds. Load of rot, you ask me, but it seemed to work for him; I suppose it's easy to command people's respect when you're Robert Baratheon.

After the rest of the introductions were made, Septon Martyn and I were sent off to find a place in the encampment where our party could bed down while Lord Estermont joined Robert in reviewing the Legion at drill. Personally, I was glad to be sent forth from the royal presence; it had been a long ride from Myr city and my arse was declaring its readiness to kill me unless I got out of the saddle. If I had known how much riding awaited us over the next few months I would have found some way to come down with a debilitating but not too dangerous illness, but I'm a knight, not a fortune teller.


	52. Chapter 52: The Stag and the Stormcrow

First there came the outriders, the scouts and raiders of the Royal Army of Myr. They were a varied crew, a mixture of freeriders who couldn't afford the weight of armor necessary to serve as a knight, renegade Dornish who had made the Principality too hot to hold them with the King's Hounds enforcing the law, and herdsmen from across the Seven Kingdoms who had been drawn by the prospect of a life that wasn't spent eternally looking at the south end of a north-bound cow, as the saying went. Some of them, primarily the Dornish, carried horsebows, but more commonly they carried longbows or crossbows that they dismounted to fire, and for hand weapons they carried spears, axes, and swords. Their defensive armament consisted of padded jacks and light ring-mail shirts for the most part, while a few carried small round shields. The cloth badges they wore stitched onto the breasts of their jacks and mail shirts mostly depicted the arms of Lord Lyn Corbray, a single raven perched on the hilt of a longsword, for the Lord Lieutenant of Sirmium was the man most responsible for the development of the light cavalry of the Royal Army, due to the need for a force to patrol the border that was more mobile than a heavy cavalry squadron.

After the outriders passed, warily scanning the horizon, there came the vanguard. These were the companies that were based in and around the town of Sirmium, marching under Lord Corbray's colors and the golden lion on scarlet of his chief lieutenant in addition to the spear and broken chain of the Legion and the sunset sky and impaled dragon's head that was the war-banner of the Kingdom of Myr. As they were in enemy territory, they marched in full armor, with the knights and men-at-arms of the cavalry companies wearing all but their helmets and the squires leading the already-barded destriers on short reins. In the event of an attack that had slipped by the outriders or, more likely, an outrider galloping back to alert them of an impending attack, it wouldn't take more than a minute for the knights to don their helmets and remount onto their destriers. And while they did so they would be shielded from a sudden onset, for the cavalry marched within a protective shell of infantry like a three-sided rectangle, one company leading in line and the other two on the flanks in column. Alongside the infantry and cavalry there marched the Corps of Pioneers in their leather aprons with their tools sloped over their shoulders and their carts of lumber and rope lumbering along behind them, ready to bridge, straighten, level, or fell any territorial impediment to the army's advance.

Immediately behind them came the main body of the army, the companies drawn from Myr city, its environs, and the heartland of the kingdom between the coast and the borders. The most prominent banner here, aside from the great war-banner, was the crowned stag of the king, but it was hardly alone. Just beside it there flew the running direwolf of the King's Fist, the black salmon of the Master of Soldiers, and dozens of other banners announcing the presence of a full third of the nobility and chivalry of the Kingdom of Myr. Here, too, the cavalry marched in the center of a cordon of infantry, ready at any moment to turn and face an attack. The army trusted its outriders, who were deployed on their flanks as well as ahead of them, but Ser Brynden Tully had hammered on the need to exercise reasonable caution and King Robert had agreed with him. It might be embarrassing to act as if they were afraid of the enemy, he had pointed out to some of his more belligerent nobles, but it would be even more embarrassing to die because they had walked into an ambush that any fool could have spotted if they had taken proper precautions.

Immediately behind the main body came the baggage train, two hundred heavy wains and almost exactly twice that number of lighter carts loaded with all the needs of an army. These were followed by a herd of cattle, sheep, and other beasts that had been driven off of Tyroshi estates since crossing the border, meat on the hoof to supplement the rough flatbread, pottage, and hard cheese that were a soldier's typical fare. The carters and drovers responsible for the baggage train were also armed, in order to fight off any attempt to steal or destroy the army's supplies, and also to mark them as being part of the army, and due the respect that was the right of every soldier of the Royal Army.

Wherever they passed they brought destruction. The outriders were the most guilty of deliberate devastation, for among their orders was the pillage of the great estates of the Tyroshi elite, the which task they carried out with savage glee. Every great house they came across was stormed, ransacked, and burned, often enough with the owners still in it, either dead or alive. The slaves who had worked the estate were unchained and given an escort back towards the army, where they were drafted into either the Pioneers or the baggage train, unless they were taken on as a general servant-recruit by one of the companies. Bridges and culverts along the line of march were zealously guarded, but those that weren't were torn down or burned in order to prevent the army being flanked. Any Tyroshi freeman caught on the road was almost invariably killed, unless they were smart enough to surrender on the spot and declare themselves wealthy enough to pay ransom.

The rest of the army was almost as bad. Twelve thousand men, almost five times as many animals, and six hundred wheeled vehicles would damage almost any surface they marched on, and while the roads of the Disputed Lands were relatively well-established, they were not the nigh-impervious dragonroads of Old Valyria. Where the army marched the land was alternately pounded flat by tramping boots and torn up by clopping hooves, so that the ground was almost mutilated by their passage. If there had been rain the army would have left a quagmire in its wake, but there had been no rain for two weeks and so in place of a sea of mud the army was trailed by clouds of dust. Where the army camped all wood for almost a mile around, whether trees, fence rails, or houses and barns, went for the legion of fires that twelve thousand men required to do their nightly cooking. What the army didn't trample down or consume, the baggage train did, especially at night when the drovers herded their beasts off the road to graze.

This trail of destruction zig-zagged across the Tyroshi borderland for almost a hundred miles in the opening sennights of the war, mirrored almost exactly in parallel a few miles opposite, for the Royal Army of Myr and the Army of Tyrosh were maneuvering to try and gain a position of advantage over each other. King Robert Baratheon of Myr sought a place where he could trap the Tyroshi army and destroy it, while Captain-General Daario Naharis of Tyrosh sought to force the Myrish army to attack him in a place where he could use the terrain to nullify the Myrish advantage in cavalry. As a by-product of these opposing strategies almost a thousand Tyroshi citizens were killed and hundreds more rendered destitute as the borderlands were devastated for the second time in almost as many years. Many of those who had gambled on improving their fortunes by commandeering a destroyed estate and rebuilding it as their own saw their dreams of riches quite literally go up in smoke as the armies stalked each other. Even those that didn't lose homes and lives saw their fortunes plummet as their slaves seized the opportunity provided by the chaos and ran for the border or the Myrish army, depending on which they thought was closer. On two estates the slaves outright revolted on hearing of the Royal Army's proximity and their masters' plans to flee to the interior. Both of these revolts were successful, but only narrowly and bloodily, with almost twice as many slaves being killed or wounded as masters, guards, and overseers, for the Tyroshi had learned from the Great Raid that servile insurrection could not be met with any countermeasure but swift and overwhelming violence, and the slaves knew that to lose was to die.

But for all the tumult, the armies only fought each other through their outriders. A proper battle, where the fate of the borderlands would be settled, continued to evade both armies, much to the consternation of the men commanding them.

XXX

The captains of the Royal Army of Myr sat around the table in various degrees of disgruntlement. They weren't used to being denied their prey, and the way in which the Tyroshi army had fended them off over the past sennight put them in a sour mood. Especially since a round of debate lively enough to put even the veteran squires serving them on edge had established that their lack of good fortune was no one's fault; apparently, the Tyroshi were just that good at outfoxing them. And so far, none of them had been able to come up with an idea to change the situation.

"We're looking at the problem backwards," Robert said suddenly, making everyone glance at him in sudden attention. "We've been trying to fight the Tyroshi army, but we don't need to."

Akhollo frowned. "Doesn't fighting a war usually involve fighting an enemy army?" he asked skeptically.

"Not when you consider our goals and circumstances as opposed to the Tyroshi's," Robert replied. "We're fighting this war to conquer Tyrosh and free its slaves, or as much of it and as many of them as we can before the Braavosi call us to heel." There was a round of sour chuckles around the table. For all that Braavos was the Kingdom of Myr's closest ally, there were still sore feelings against them for the part they had played in crafting the Peace of Pentos and its insulting terms. "The Tyroshi, on the other hand, are fighting this war in order to keep us out of their territory and keep their slaves," Robert went on. "And we got over the border first. That being so, in order for us to obtain our goals, all we need to do is march into the Tyroshi interior and start taking towns. The Tyroshi, though, need to face us in battle and defeat us in order to achieve _their_ goals."

Ser Brynden frowned. "In that case, they should be maneuvering much more aggressively than they have been," he said. "Instead of us trying to trap them, they should be trying to trap us. But they've been content to let us chase them hither and yon, keeping one step ahead of us the while. If they need to fight and defeat us, then they should be trying to catch us in a situation where we'd have to fight at a disadvantage."

"Unless whoever's commanding them isn't confident of victory," Eddard mused, drumming his fingertips on the table. "Who _is_ commanding the Tyroshi?"

Ser Brynden flipped through his papers for a moment. "One Daario Naharis," he said, finding the correct report, "Tyroshi-born, but a sellsword all his adult life. Former lieutenant in the Stormcrows, fought at Tara, led the remnant of the Stormcrows out of Myrish service after that battle, entered Tyroshi service about a month before the Peace of Pentos, according to Ser Gerion's sources." He frowned. "If he fought at Tara with the Stormcrows, that might explain why he's being so damned cagy. From what I've heard, your horsemen handled them pretty roughly, Ned."

Lyn leaned forward in his chair, lowering his hands from where he had steepled them in front of his face. "If we need to march into the Tyroshi interior and take towns," he said, "then let us start with Alalia. It's the hub of the Tyroshi lands' south-eastern district, and it sits astride the crossroads of the main north-south and east-west roads in this quarter of the Disputed Lands. If we take Alalia then we can dominate the whole countryside hereabouts." A quick stroke of Lyn's finger on the map laid out on the table indicated a rough right triangle ten miles along the height formed by the Myrish border and thirty-five miles along the base formed by the Lyseni border, with the long side formed by the Turtle River, a broad but shallow and slow-flowing stream that ran roughly northeast from the Whitestone Hills to empty into the Sea of Myrth about five miles over the Myrish border.

"Agreed," Akhollo said, leaning forward himself. "From what the new freedmen tell us, that area is well watered by Turtle River and its vassal streams; the estates there are very fertile, in crops and livestock both. And they have many slaves as a result." He grinned savagely. "And also much wealth in Alalia, from the petty magisters who cannot afford to live on Tyrosh isle except for a small part of the year, and the factors who deal in the produce of the estates." The captains all nodded. The destruction of slavery was a fine and worthy goal, but insofar as the business of the kingdom was concerned, Akhollo had just listed the most attractive fruits of any war. Thousands of new subjects, fertile and productive land to support them, a rich town to stimulate commerce, and a fair bit of ready cash to reward the army for its service and sacrifices.

Robert nodded. "So starting tomorrow we'll stop this feinting and march straight for Alalia," he said, drawing his finger across the map, "and we'll dare this Daario Naharis to stop us. If he stands and fights, well and good. If not, then we'll storm Alalia and make him look like a coward who won't use the army the Archon's given him."

XXX

Daario glared at the scrap of parchment that the scout's report was written on and manfully resisted the urge to tear it to bits, or ball it up and throw it away. The Myrish, it seemed, had lost patience with maneuvering and were tromping down the road towards Alalia. The force he had set to watch the bridge at Pipe Creek had been brushed aside by Lyn Corbray and Jaime Lannister's outriders, and by now the Myrish would have almost all their force across Pipe Creek.

He transferred his glare from the parchment to the western horizon, thinking furiously. Alalia wasn't strategically critical, in the grand scheme of things; it's loss and that of the farms and mines in its hinterland would be a blow, but a survivable one, in that it wouldn't cause the city to starve or go bankrupt. Politically, however, the loss of Alalia would be intolerable. Quite a few of the Archon's council had estates around Alalia, and Daario could already hear their howls of outrage at the loss of productive estates and valuable slaves. In the broader population the outrage would be that the barbarian Andals and their rogue slaves had gotten so far into the Tyroshi heartland and wrought their outrages on Tyroshi citizens.

If Alalia fell without a fight, then there would be questions asked about why the upjumped sellsword, who had been given command over more deserving men by a perhaps-too-indulgent Archon, had not fought to prevent the sacred soil of Tyrosh from falling into the hands of the barbarians and their renegade bondsmen. Questions that could all to easily become sharp, hot, or heavy, if not a combination of the three. Daario might have regained his Tyroshi citizenship after rejoining the city's service and so was theoretically legally protected from torture, but citizenship could be revoked as a punishment for treason. And you could easily make a case that refusing to fight for a major town constituted treason; he could hear Varoros framing the argument already. The Archon might be his patron, but at the end of the day, the Archon always held his position at the pleasure of the conclave, which could be called for a special session to debate and vote on a motion of no confidence on the recommendation of a majority of the Archon's council. Daario wasn't willing to trust his personal, precious, and irreplaceable neck to the strength of the Archon's political position, especially since, as the man's client, his fortunes reflected on the Archon.

Daario stuffed the parchment into his belt purse and sent his manservant to summon his officers. He had an army to turn around.

_King Robert's turn towards Alalia, risky as it was in that it exposed the Royal Army's flank to the Tyroshi, was a calculated risk; Robert was gambling that his army's superior march discipline would allow them to outrun the Tyroshi until they came to a suitable battlefield. Four days after executing the turn, and twenty-three days after crossing the border, that battlefield came to hand . . ._

\- _Freedom or Death: An Overview of the Slave Wars_ by Maester Julian, published 2182 AC


	53. Chapter 53: A Flash of Battle

_The following is an excerpt from _Flash for the Faith!

You need an uncommonly detailed map to find Solva these days, mostly because it doesn't exist anymore; the Myrish outriders burnt it out and those that survived decided to try their luck elsewhere. It was a little village about four days ride from Alalia that had sprung up because it lay where the main east-west road through the Tyroshi interior crossed Hatchet Stream and it was a convenient day's ride to the two nearest plantations. It's always the small, unknown places that seem to attract great battles, though; Tara was a sleepy country estate, Narrow Run a magister's playground, and the Battle of the Greenblood took place along a deserted stretch of the high road along the river. I don't know if its fate, the gods, or the imp of the perverse, but whatever it was, it put both the Royal Army of Myr and the Army of Tyrosh at Solva at the same time, and that's as good a way to start a battle as any.

The land around Solva was primarily pastureland, thanks to the demand for the village to supply meat to the nearby plantations, to its inns, and to Alalia, and it was divided into great lots by hedgerows much like the ones in the Crownlands. One of these lots, lying just across the road to the north of Solva with the bridge at its southwest corner, had been turned into an improvised fortress by the Pioneers, who had spent the past day and half the night chopping down some of the foliage along the north and east-facing hedgerows and weaving it into the rest to form makeshift barriers. The south-facing hedgerow had been mostly cleared of vegetation and two channels twenty feet wide hacked through the bank to allow for wheeled vehicles to pass through. A regular little castle it was, if you had infantry to hold it with, and in the Iron Legion the Royal Army had the best infantry in the world at that time.

The Army of Tyrosh had come down out of the northeast and spent the night opposite us, about a mile distant. Most of them, about ten thousand, were spear-and-crossbow militia, Tyroshi citizens who were ordinarily yeoman farmers or urban tradesmen. The other fifteen hundred were sellsword cavalry, the Ragged Standard, the Bright Banners, and the Second Sons. It was certainly respectable, as armies went; the militia weren't a patch on the Iron Legion but they would fight bravely enough for their homes and their families, and the sellswords would fight because that was what they were paid to do. And the man commanding them, Daario Naharis, was a clever sod of a sellsword who knew his business, and also knew that he didn't dare let us get to Alalia without fighting for it. If they let us any deeper into the Tyroshi interior the slave revolt would make the one in Myr look like a harvest festival, and that and the army's devastations would tear the guts out of Tyrosh's economy.

So when Robert, cool as willie-be-damned, started sending his baggage train across Hatchet Stream, Naharis threw the lever and went at him like a lightning bolt. I don't mind telling you that it was more than a little unnerving seeing almost twelve thousand men coming at us with murderous intent, but then the skinpipers that Maege Mormont had brought across the sea with her struck up that hideous droning wail and Ned Stark led the Iron Legion to their positions and I began to feel much better. After all, I was on the Legion's side, and for the first several minutes of the battle my optimism seemed justified enough as the Legion met the Tyroshi militia at the hedgerows and cut them up something dreadful. I'm told that Septon Jonothor was right there with them, tramping up and down the line with an iron-bound staff in one hand and shouting quotes from the _Seven-Pointed Star_ with the other septons while the red priests did the same thing with their own scriptures. Having met the man, I wouldn't be surprised; I don't know what it is about god-botherers that makes them so careless of their own lives and so convinced that they're doing the right thing, but whatever it is Jonothor had enough of it for five men. No wonder he caused so much trouble. I was just thinking that things seemed well in hand when I looked out towards the right and I felt my heart go into my throat.

Naharis had put all fifteen hundred of his cavalry on that flank and it was coming down the road like water down a pipe. If they managed to get all the way down that road to the bridge, then two things would happen. One, the sellswords would be able to cut off and swallow the supply wagons that had already gotten across Hatchet Stream, which would be bad enough. Two, they would be able to swarm over the southern face of the Royal Army's position and break it open from the inside. Especially since the only uncommitted forces in the lot were the hundred lances of Robert's bodyguard; the rest of our cavalry had ridden off in the night and was nowhere to be seen. And three to one, or so I thought, was poor odds for anybody, even men that Ser Brynden Tully and Eddard Stark had taken a personal hand in training.

Well, I was punished for thinking that things were about to go to shit, because on top of being a bonny fighter Robert had a useful head on his shoulders, and in the Blackfish and the Iron Wolf he had two of the canniest generals of the day. No sooner had the sellsword cavalry gotten within a hundred yards of the east-facing hedgerow than a horn sounded and out from a sunken road between two lots just east of Solva came the Royal Army's cavalry, Jaime Lannister and four hundred knights and squires that barged into the flank of that charge and turned them from a wave of oncoming destruction into a chaotic mess of falling riders and struggling beasts with the knights plunging further in to complete the overthrow while the valets, archers, and pages moved in on foot to establish a position.

It was the neatest flank attack I ever saw and ever hope to see; the knights of the Royal Orders couldn't have done it better and I saw them try. Within a minute the melee was starting to collapse as sellswords streamed away in flight, while the horns blew wildly to reform and next to me Lord Estermont was standing in his stirrups bellowing triumphantly. "That's the way, boys!" was one of the more restrained things he said. "By the gods, that's the way! That's how you fix their hash!" A little way over Robert himself was also standing in the stirrups roaring approbation, with the knights of his bodyguard hammering gauntlets against breastplates in applause, and then Robert was shouting orders and the horns were blowing again and Robert was leading his bodyguard out through one of the lanes cut into the bank. That set Lord Estermont off good and proper. "There he goes!" he roared. "Out to finish them off, by the gods! That's the way to do it!" He hesitated for only a moment before throwing caution to the winds entirely. "Guy, my lance! Lances ready sers, we're going with them!"

My initial thought was that I'd misheard him, but then a lance was shoved into my fist and he and the other five men-at-arms in our party were cantering away and my horse, idiot screw that he was, was cantering after them and I realized that he was quite serious. He had no business doing it of course, we were a _fact-finding mission_ for all love, we weren't even supposed to be anywhere near the border much less thirteen days ride over it, but that didn't matter to him. His grandson was going to fight and he would be damned if he didn't ride with him. Besides which, Robert was that kind of man; if he went somewhere you followed, even if you couldn't explain why for the life of you. I wouldn't have, for a pension, but I've got a windy streak wider than the Trident, so maybe it was just me.

Not that it mattered by that point. Backing out would be impossible, in broad daylight with everyone able to see. So instead I placed myself in the second rank as we joined Robert's guards; whoever took the brunt of the charge, it wouldn't be me if I had anything to say about it. We caught up to the cavalry just as they had straightened themselves out, placed ourselves in their center as another hundred lances joined us on the right, and then the horns blew and the charge began.

I heard afterward that the Tyroshi started to break before the charge even began and the gods know that it felt like it at first. What I didn't know until afterward was that as soon as Daario Naharis saw his cavalry collapse, he had given the order to retreat. Quite rightly, in my opinion, with fifteen hundred heavy horse and mounted infantry on his left flank front ready to come down on him like a hammer on a nail and nothing to put in their way. And after an hour of bouncing off the Iron Legion the militia were ready to oblige. The Legion didn't like that above half and if they'd had their way not one of the Tyroshi militia would have escaped. But the same fortifications that had helped them handle the Tyroshi so easily kept them from pursuing; depending on who you ask it took the Pioneers anywhere between ten and twenty minutes to get to the front and dismantle the fortifications to let the Legion through. And unless you've seen a man run for his life, you really don't know how much ground he can cover in that length of time. Suffice to say that its more than you might think.

Of course, even men running for their lives are slower than cavalry and for the first several minutes we just rode over them. There's nothing in the world quite like riding down a fleeing man and swinging your sword back into his face; it's a lot like being drunk except you feel like your blood's been replaced by chain lightning. You feel invincible, almost god-like, like there's nothing in the world that can stop you. Right up until someone belts you across the face. Which is what Daario Naharis did.

How he managed it I don't know but somehow he managed to rally a few hundred of his sellswords and led them in a counter-charge that caught us about halfway through his infantry. At the time it was just a wild chaos of shouting men and screaming horses and the clangor of metal on metal, but at this remove I can see it for the neat little counter-punch it was; quickly in, _bam_, to throw us off our stride and into confusion, and then quickly out again, to do it again when we had sorted ourselves out. Nor was he alone in doing so. On the far side of the army a company of Myrish exiles and their in-laws refused to break and run. Instead they retired at a walk, in formation, turning back every now and then to lock horns with anyone who tried to complete the rout by breaking them. As the Blackfish put it afterwards, "Slaver bastards, perhaps, but brave men withal. They deserve a better cause."

I learned later that between that company and the cavalry Naharis had rallied, the Army of Tyrosh managed to put up a fighting retreat for almost ten miles, with Jaime Lannister and Lyn Corbray chewing away at the rearguard like bulldogs, but I didn't see all of that. My horse gave out and collapsed about four miles in and I sprained my ankle bad enough in leaping clear that all I could do was sit myself on the beast and wait for someone to collect me when the fighting was done. Thank blind idiot luck for that, too, because apparently the last few clashes were downright vicious, including one exchange where Daario came up against Jaime Lannister and only escaped by dint of killing Jaime's horse at the first opportunity. Not that I knew or cared, then; all I wanted was for my damned ankle to stop throbbing.


	54. Chapter 54: Frustrated Ambitions

Petyr Baelish finished off the last sentence of the order he was drafting, placed his pen in its inkwell, and carefully stretched the incipient cramp out of his hand as he sanded the ink with his other hand. Long hours of writing had given him almost as much strength and control in that hand as a swordsman, but four twelve-hour days would take a toll on anyone.

Not that he had expected royal service to be a cushy job. A kingdom on the make needed every wheel to be turning at full speed with a minimum of squeaking. He had found this out for himself when Lord Stark had found him a clerkship in a Port warehouse; Lord Captain of the Port Franlan tolerated no sluggards in his workforce, be they watchman, clerk, or stevedore. Even the slowdown in trade caused by the war hadn't lightened the workload. On the contrary, Franlan had taken the names of those clerks who found themselves idled by lack of business and given the list to Ser Gerion with the offer to loan them out to him until trade picked back up.

Which was how Petyr had come to be a supply clerk in the Royal Army of Myr, which in layman's terms meant that his world had turned into a side room that held eight tables each eight feet square, a rack of cubbyholes each stuffed with papers, and a supply of ink and spare quills. In any given hour, Petyr might have to report how many feet of half-inch rope lay in Myr city's warehouses, grade a request by a village militia commander for extra crossbows and recommend to his superior whether to approve or deny the request, and draft an order to ship five hundredweight of wheat to Campora to top up its siege stores. And whenever something was sent out or received, it had to be signed for by the person disbursing it, the person transporting it, the person receiving it, and the clerk who had written up the order for transport, which generated even more papers.

That was one reason that Petyr hadn't tried to give his salary a little covert augmentation. If, for instance, he arranged for a few military crossbows to fall off the back of a wagon, then he would have to bring at least two other people into the scheme, which was two too many for comfort. As the saying went, three people can keep a secret if two of them are dead. And even if his cohorts kept their silence, all it took was one royal inspector noticing a discrepancy between what someone said they had and what they actually had to break the scheme open; the trail of signed papers would lead right to Petyr and his conspirators.

That was the other reason Petyr hadn't dipped his fingers into the till. The royal inspectors didn't just inspect the state of the town garrisons and the fitness of the Legion companies; they inspected every branch of royal government from top to bottom. And when they found something out of order, correction followed with the speed and finality of a thrown axe. The day before Petyr had transferred to War House, the sprawling manse that Ser Brynden Tully had made the great brain of the Royal Army, a master clerk in the Palace of Justice had been caught embezzling and every scribbler who wore the livery and took the pay of the Kingdom of Myr had been ordered to attend his execution.

At first, Petyr had thought that it was a show, that the unfortunate would be taken up to the scaffold and the noose placed on his neck before a messenger came hotfoot from the Palace of Justice with a grant of clemency, or at least a stay of execution. But the noose had been tightened, the red priest had recited the death prayer, and Petyr and almost four hundred other clerks watched in shock as the lever was pulled and the embezzler dropped. But not far enough to break his neck, oh no, the headsman had given the embezzler the short drop, so that instead of having his neck broken he had slowly strangled. It had taken the poor sod almost ten minutes to die, with his face slowly turning blue and his eyes bulging as he fought for air. Eventually he had gone limp, and the headsman had made sure of his demise by grabbing onto his ankles and yanking down hard.

Petyr prided himself on being a fast learner and the lesson had been tolerably clear: _Keep your sticky fingers to yourself, if you know what's good for you._ And at that, the man had apparently been lucky to be hanged. Ducking out to the local bakery for lunch one day, Petyr had overheard a pair of Legion spearmen discussing the embezzler and what they would have done to him if he'd been handed over to them as they had requested. He had lost his appetite entirely after only a few sentences.

So he kept his hands to himself and his head down; there was plenty of time still to make his fortune and something would turn up. He had already made a fair bit investing in a few cargoes of glassware that had gone to Braavos and King's Landing; it wasn't strictly forbidden for royal employees to invest and speculate on trade so long as they only did so with their own money and didn't abuse their position in the process. The war had put a stop to that for now, but he had an investment lined up with the Weaver's Guild as soon as trade resumed its normal flow. He might wear plain clothes and eat plain food for now, but time and a continuance of his newfound luck would change that, among other things.

He gently set the order into the tray designated for outgoing papers and reached for the next paper in the tray designated for incomers. There were several hours left to go before the office closed and the stack in his incoming tray was still two inches thick.

XXX

Roryn Pyke laboriously scratched out his signature on the report to Ser Gerion on the probe that had been fended off two days ago; he had been learning to read and write since being named castellan of Ironhold, but he still relied on a scribe for anything longer or more complicated than a short message. After he finished writing he handed the report back to his scribe to be sealed and sent off by dispatch rider and turned to glower out the window at the sea.

By all rights the Sea of Myrth should be a Myrish sea in truth, but the fact remained that the Royal Navy could do no more than protect the littoral and the coastal shelf and make occasional forays out into the open sea. The slaver fleets were simply too numerous and, if Roryn was being entirely honest, too competent to challenge for a fleet that still numbered less than seventy galleys; longships made excellent patrol and raiding craft, but they couldn't fight galleys on even terms and expect to win. The Ironmaker's victory had been won by surprise, and those actions where a Myrish longship had beaten a slaver galley had almost uniformly been won by a boarding action after an error in maneuvering had allowed the longship to get alongside the galley. There were ways to force such errors in maneuvering, if you had the numbers to threaten each galley from multiple angles, but Roryn, Victarion, and Dagmer Cleftjaw had worked out that the most reliable method of doing so required a lone galley to be opposed by three longships.

The slavers, the god curse them, had taken to sailing in squadrons of three or four galleys, and operating in close concert as they did so. That made things infinitely more difficult; not that it was impossible to force the kind of errors you needed to win, but you needed to have four or five times the number of longships in order to do so, and you needed all the skill you could muster and all the special favor you could cadge out of the god in order to do so. And even under the best of circumstances the Drowned God was stingy with his favor. Only those who had already done all that mortal might and craft could accomplish could reasonably expect him to take a hand.

So Lord Captain Franlan was building new galleys as fast as he could, while off the shore the Royal Navy did the best they could to keep the coastal villages from being attacked as they had been in the first war. But for all the valor the Navy showed in protecting the coast, they couldn't reopen the Sea of Myrth to trade. The slavers had announced the Sea of Myrth to be closed to trade on pain of attack, and proved it by sinking a slew of merchant vessels in the opening days of the war. Dispatch riders had already been sent north to Pentos requesting the aid of the Braavosi fleet on the grounds that the Peace of Pentos had guaranteed freedom of navigation, but it would take some time for that aid to come, if it came at all. In the meantime, the merchants of Ironhold and Myr city were being forced to tighten their belts and explore other means of making a living. More than a few merchant's sons had joined the Royal Navy in order to contribute a sailor's wages towards the maintenance of their families, while their mothers and sisters took in sewing and embroidery and their fathers turned their gazes inland.

At least Ironhold was more or less immune to attack. The harbor defenses were essentially a copy of those protecting the port of Myr, augmented by the fact that the town castle, a stoutly constructed citadel in the fashion of the holdfasts of the Iron Isles, was placed on the shore at the western end of the harbor. Moreover, the town's buildings were strongly built, whether of stone or wood, and each household, shop, and place of business was required to maintain at least one water barrel and four buckets per floor against fire. The probe he was reporting to Ser Gerion had been a pair of Tyroshi galleys that had flirted with the extreme range of the springalds on the harbor mole towers. A few desultory bolts back and forth, and a hand of longships putting out from the docks, had convinced the slavers to try their luck elsewhere.

Roryn's lip curled into a snarl; he hated feeling unable to protect the livelihood of his people, and if he knew Victarion it would be eating at the young lord's soul like rats in a granary. At least Victarion was out at sea where he could do something about it. Roryn, by contrast, was stuck in Ironhold listening to his scribe read out reports and petitions and taking out his frustrations on the pell and those of the town garrison who would brave his increasingly foul mood in order to spar with him.

XXX

A properly brought-up Lyseni aristocrat didn't show strong emotion in public. Not that they couldn't show emotion at all, even grief was acceptable if you were in mourning. But it had to understated; a discreet sniffle and a lone tear was perfectly within the bounds of civilized behavior, wailing and floods of tears not so much. Such extravagant displays of unbridled emotion were for barbarians, not the well-bred scions of Lys the Lovely.

But on finding that his path was blocked by yet _another_ fortified village, Cladio Pyrrius couldn't help himself. He thumped his fist on the pommel of his saddle and spat a caustic string of oaths that made his lieutenants edge backward as they traded nervous glances. Cladio snarled a final imprecation that he had heard on one of his uncle's ships, which cursed its target, its progeny, and its ancestors unto the fourth generation, and finally subsided, forcing himself to review the situation dispassionately as he deliberately slowed his breathing.

He had come over the border ten days ago with three thousand mounted light infantry and light horse under his command; it was well short of the commitment promised by the mutual defense treaty with Tyrosh, but it was what could be spared from the defenses while the army was being restructured. In any case, he had been ordered to do all the damage he could to the Myrish countryside in order to draw troops away from the invasion of Tyrosh, or at least render the Myrish southeastern frontier incapable of supporting an army. A sound enough strategy, but the cracks had appeared almost immediately.

To name only one, the damned Andals hadn't been caught with their pants down, as some of the more optimistic members of the conclave had theorized. On his first day over the border he had seen no less than six signal fires, and the purpose of them had become apparent only two days later, when his army came across their first fortified village. It hadn't been anything special, simply a ditch-and-rampart affair with a palisade along the rampart and short, but no less significant towers at each corner bastion. But it had contained the inhabitants of every nearby farm, down to the livestock; Cladio's scouts had found nothing greater than a chicken in any of the farmhouses within a day's ride of the fortified villages, and no valuables either. The farms had been burned, of course, but with the crops only recently planted the only things that could be burned were the buildings, fruit trees, and vineyards that couldn't be brought within the villages.

He had stormed the first of those villages, of course; he would not have it said that he was afraid to try conclusions against slaves and peasants. But it had been far more difficult than he was expecting. The first storming party had been shot apart by crossbow volleys without getting within fifty feet of the wall. The second storming party, better supported with missile fire and employing improvised mantlets, had gotten to the walls but had been forced to retreat after a short but vicious contest atop the palisade. At that point Cladio had lost his temper and ordered the gates to be burned. This had been accomplished, and a substantial section of the palisade on either side of the gatehouse burned down as well before the bucket brigade overwhelmed the flames, but the villagers had dug a shallow ditch and assembled a barricade from the excavated earth and other materials that allowed them to cover the new gap in the walls with crossbowmen in cover supported by spearmen. It hadn't saved them in the end, but for the privilege of reducing the village to a corpse-strewn ruin Cladio's force had paid a heavy price. A hundred and thirty-six men had either been killed outright or died of their wounds, while another two hundred had been too badly wounded to continue with the raid and three hundred more were lightly wounded.

Cladio, for his part, had been more aghast that none of the defenders of the village appeared to be regular soldiers. They had all been peasants, albeit peasants wielding military weapons. His patrician soul rebelled at the idea of an armed peasantry trained and willing to fight, but he could not deny the evidence before his eyes. The fact that of the three villages they had encountered since every one of them had been fortified and defended provided even more evidence. The Kingdom of Myr simply _couldn't _have enough trained soldiers to invade Tyrosh, garrison Myr city and their principal towns, _and_ protect every village; the numbers required would bankrupt them. Instead, it appeared, the Myrish had armed and trained their peasants to defend themselves, and built those ungodly fortified villages to further help them do so, in order to allow them to concentrate their soldiers in the major towns, Myr city, and their field army.

Confirmation of that theory would have to wait on further information however, and while Cladio was willing to try and find out the hard way, that was no longer an option. After losing just over a tenth of his strength at that nameless, never-to-be-sufficiently-damned village, he didn't have the numbers to storm more villages and protect himself against a counter-stroke. Especially since the companies stationed at Campora had sallied out to take the field against him. He _did_ outnumber them by about half their numbers again and was far more mobile than the heavy infantry and heavy cavalry of the Iron Legion, but their commander was mirroring his movements on the inner of two concentric arcs, which meant that he had fundamentally less ground to cover in order to keep Cladio from penetrating further. And Cladio knew better than to fight head-on against heavy foot and armored lancers with light foot and light horse.

Cladio shrugged. He had been told to do all the damage to the Myrish frontier that he could, and he had done so. Along his whole line of march there was not a farmhouse that remained unburnt or an orchard that had not been cut down. He had also been ordered to preserve his force insofar as he was able within the confines of his other orders and so far, he had lost only two hundred and fifty men killed and wounded. His family's rivals in the conclave couldn't argue with successfully completed orders. Especially since he had made sure that each of his entries in the running log that detailed the travails of his command had been countersigned by two of his subordinates. It was one thing to accuse a commander of cowardice or inability, but quite another to extend that accusation to the full roster of his subordinate officers.

He turned and started giving orders. They would inflict what devastation they could on the lands around the village, and then begin the withdrawal. It galled him to withdraw without at least spying the towers of Campora, but that was the fault of the men who'd given him a raiding force instead of a proper army. If the conclave had any sense and read his reports, they wouldn't try an invasion again without a larger force, a proper supply train, and siege engines.


	55. Chapter 55: Flotsam and Jetsam

Ser Brynden Tully pursed his lips as he stared about him. Alalia had fallen, as might have been predicted, but it had been nowhere near as clean a takeover as even the taking of Myr had been, much less the capture of Pentos, his ideal. Unavoidably so, perhaps, given the circumstances, but it was still unfortunate.

When news of the Battle of Solva had reached the town, the slaves had erupted in rebellion that very evening. Apparently, it had started nigh-spontaneously when the street-sweepers had refused to go into their barracks for the night, but the mutiny of the sweepers had only been the spark that ignited the first flame. The porters had gone to the aid of the sweepers, and that had convinced the laborers and blacksmiths that this was the best opportunity they could ask for to initiate their deeply-laid plans at rebellion. With that the revolt had become general, even among the domestic slaves, and within twenty minutes Alalia had become a battlefield as the rebelling slaves grappled with the garrison and the watch for control of the streets.

The fighting, judging by the evidence, had been savage; from where Brynden sat his horse he could see where the blood had pooled along the street and splashed against the walls of the buildings on either side. The market district, he had been told, had changed hands twice before a concerted effort by the blacksmiths, butchers, and porters had slaughtered or driven out the garrison troops and watchmen who had been holding it. At that point the commander of the garrison, in desperation, had resorted to the use of fire, deliberately torching a swathe of the town in order to buy time for his men to regroup. It might even have worked, if the Royal Army hadn't arrived the very next day.

An assault column of Legion spearmen headed by dismounted knights had entered through the one gate that the slaves had taken and spearheaded the final attack through the town while other companies deployed against the fire. The commander of the garrison and a hundred die-hards had fought to the last man in the manse of the Prefect of the East, who it seemed had been away when the slaves rebelled. The remaining Tyroshi soldiers and watchmen had been hunted through the streets like rats; the last of them had been rooted out and slain not two hours ago. As for the free population of the city, they had suffered terribly during the fighting; less than a thousand people of all ages and sexes had survived, and those were huddling in the Temple of Trade in a state of abject fear. The brutality of the fighting had exhausted the slaves' appetite for revenge for now, but when they had recovered and remembered the masters who still remained . . .

Robert, apparently, intended to let them go free. There were no fit men of military age remaining among them, as the commander of the garrison had conscripted every man who could wield sword or spear, and he didn't expect Tyrosh to hold out long enough for the male children to grow old enough to fight for her. The former slaves might be unhappy about it, but as their one surviving leader had put it, their chains had been avenged enough for now. Brynden shrugged to himself; they would have plenty of opportunity to take what revenge they thought necessary in the near future. Indeed, more than a few of them had enlisted in the Legion. Which would solve the problem of keeping them from committing any more destruction at least.

Which left the problem of Alalia's condition. Almost a fifth of the town had been reduced to ash and the charred skeletons of buildings. Most of the rest had been thoroughly pillaged; the new freedmen had taken the opportunity to plunder and destroy in between fighting the garrison and the watch and tormenting the burghers. Even worse, the municipal granary had been burned on the garrison commander's orders, with the deliberate intent, according to the survivors of the garrison, of denying its contents to the Royal Army. When Brynden had seen the blackened shell of the great structure, the largest single building in the town, he had briefly entertained the notion of hiring a warlock to raise the garrison commander from the dead so that he could kill him again. The Royal Army consumed several _tons_ of food every day, and losing the municipal granary, holding as it did the siege stores of the town and the produce of some of the most fertile fields in Tyroshi territory, had been a blow. And not just to the Army, either; they were now responsible for feeding the town of Alalia and the population of the surrounding countryside as well.

That task, combined with putting Alalia back on its feet as a fully functioning town, would take a great deal of time and effort. And that left aside the mess that the countryside had become.

XXX

Stallen Naerolis, former diplomatic functionary and now a lieutenant in the Army of Tyrosh, swallowed a curse as he beheld the burned-out shell of the farmhouse. There was no point in wasting his breath on empty curses, even if this was the third destroyed farm that he had come across in as many hours of riding.

The slaves of Tyrosh had been restive ever since the Fall of Myr, when the Andals had proven that they and their doctrine of violent abolition had the means and the ability to become a permanent addition to the political and social landscape of western Essos. On Tyrosh isle that new restlessness had been muted due to the fact that the isle's garrison was reinforced with the Tyroshi fleet, with all its sailors and marines. But in the countryside, there hadn't been so large and so obvious a military presence, even after the Peace of Pentos when the Archon had ordered the expansion of the Tyroshi army. There had been few outright revolts, and those that had erupted had been crushed with signal brutality, but the rate of what the Tyroshi justiciars called 'deliberate indiscipline' had risen drastically, as had the number of runaways. This had been met with an increase in the number and strength of military patrols through the countryside, and a new requirement that those patrols visit every estate within their district at least twice a month, but such measures had only abated the problem, not solved it.

And then the war had come, and the majority of those patrols had been swept up into the army. The result had been a predictable increase in escapes, but outright revolt had been averted, probably by the deliberate choice of the slaves themselves. Who could say, after all, but that the masters might not be victorious? But then the Battle of Solva had been fought, and news of the Tyroshi defeat had put the spark to the tinder. The very day after the retreat from Solva ended, no less than four messengers had come galloping up to the army from the nearby estates to report that the slaves had revolted. Captain-General Naharis had dispatched what was left of his cavalry to suppress the revolts, out of necessity, but within two days the cavalry had returned in near-disarray. The whole countryside, they had reported, was aflame with servile rebellion. The slaves from the nearby estates, armed with farming tools and weapons taken from the great houses of the estates, were roaming the roads in hundreds-strong mobs, intent on slaughter and pillage. Even worse, they were being joined by bands of Andal cavalry, providing them with the disciplined core of armored men necessary to fight off attempts to suppress them.

To his credit, Naharis had seen what needed to be done and ordered an immediate retreat towards Aesica. Once over the Turtle River, the army could resupply, replenish its numbers, and prepare to take up the contest again. While the infantry plodded down the North Road towards the bridges at Dubris, the remaining cavalry, and the remains of the Exile Company, as the Myrish among the army were called, were set to patrolling the flanks of the army's line of march. He had also sent off a spray of dispatch riders to rush north to the warn the garrison of Dubris to be on its guard and call up reinforcements. And as someone had apparently told him of what Stallen had actually been assigned to do in Pentos, nothing would do but that Stallen be one of those riders. Any man with the skill and the sand to almost pull off an assassination attempt against Robert the Bloody was clearly the man to carry a vital message through hostile country.

Stallen spat aside as he reined his horse back onto the road. It was flattering to have the Captain-General hold so high an opinion of his skills, but he could have done without being given this assignment. Up till now he had only heard what the Andals and the slaves had done to his homeland, and that had been bad enough. Now, seeing what an Andal invasion and a slave revolt meant with his own eyes, it didn't take much imagination to see these things happening in his own country. Especially since it had already happened.

XXX

Stannis read through the report that had just arrived from Evenfall Hall that morning for the third time, calculating furiously as he did so. Not about whether a war could be justified; that was easily answered. The Peace of Pentos had clearly been breached and he was in a position to fulfill the obligations that such an event imposed on him as one of the guaranteeing powers. It would bring shame on his House and endanger his position as King not to declare war on the slavers who had broken the Peace.

No, what filled Stannis' mind was what he would make war with and what he could expect out of it. He had the two hundred galleys and cogs of the royal fleet of course, and he was reasonably confident that the Braavosi squadron stationed at Evenfall Hall would agree to join the war; it was the Braavosi who had insisted on making freedom of navigation a condition of the Peace, after all. Jon would probably insist on leaving the Vale fleet at home against a counter-stroke, though, and the need to act quickly precluded sending for the Manderly or Redwyne fleets. The New Nobles could be drawn on for marines; even the most horse-bound of them would accept the impossibility of fighting in the saddle when at sea and they held their lands and their positions on condition of knight-service at the Crown's pleasure. And those ships the New Nobles couldn't provide marines for could have their complements filled out by the Knights of the Crown, a new Royal Order with roughly equivalent duties in the Crownlands to those that the Knights of the Sun discharged in Dorne. Like the Knights of the Sun, those of the Crown were primarily younger sons of the nobility and landed chivalry or elevated hedge knights, and would have no trouble at all following a command to serve as naval infantry. Most of them were grateful enough to be in royal service, with all the things that implied for their social status and their chances of making a good marriage, that they would fight however and wherever they were told to, or so one of their officers had said in a report.

That settled the what, which left the second half of the why. One of the sub-clauses of the Peace of Pentos provided for the guaranteeing powers to levy fines and other sanctions against parties in breach of the Peace, but Stannis wasn't terribly concerned with strictly monetary sanctions; ready cash was certainly convenient to have around, but it wasn't the sine qua non of royal policy. He stood up, walked over to the rack of cubbyholes along the wall of his solar, and drew out a certain map which he spread across the table. After weighing down the corners of the map with an inkpot, his dagger, a small plate that held the remains of his luncheon, and an ornamental statuette of an armored knight on a rearing destrier that he hated but couldn't throw away because it was a gift from Cersei, he traced the main shipping routes through the Stepstones with his finger.

The Stepstones were a haven for piracy not just because of the profusion of easily-hidden lairs that they offered but because none of the nearby powers had the strength or the will to effect a cleansing and keep the isles cleared of the sea-bandits. Consequently, goods that traversed the Stepstones were more expensive than they might otherwise be in order to offset the costs of allowing a large and active population of semi-organized criminals to go about their business. But if the Tyroshi could be forced to yield their possessions in the Stepstones, and their selectively blind patrols replaced with men of the proper rectitude and thoroughness . . . Stannis smiled thinly. He could probably convince the Braavosi that it would be acceptable enough for an ally to collect a toll from the ships that passed through the Narrow Sea in return for suppressing piracy, especially if that ally promised to give Braavosi ships a reduced rate. The Braavosi were smart enough to realize that it was better to pay a few coppers in order to secure a steady stream of silver than pay nothing in return for a little gold now and then.

His decision made, he rang a small handbell. "Inform Lord Arryn and Lord Redwyne to meet me in the Small Council at once, if you please," he said to the valet that appeared at the door. "Pass the word for the Grand Maester as well." What Lord Redwyne didn't know about the prevailing conditions in the Stepstones, Pycelle should; Stannis had ordered him to undertake a study of them just last month. As the valet bowed his way back out of sight he re-rolled the map and tucked it under his arm, snatching up the report in his other hand as he did so. Theoretically, he had servants to carry things for him, but Stannis was sure that they had more important things to do than carry such a trifling load. What, did he not have strong arms and clever hands of his own? He shook his head absent-mindedly. The pomp and theatrics of kingship he could understand but the protocol that theoretically prevented him from doing even the slightest manual labor beyond training at arms was simply _inefficient_.


	56. Chapter 56: The Stormcrow's Stand

Mero of Braavos, the Titan's Bastard, smiled carnivorously as the last knot of rebellious slaves went down under the swords of his men. It had taken longer than he would have liked, but at least it was done and he could get after the clot of runaway slaves that was running for the Turtle River as fast as their feet could carry them.

As Naharis had feared, the slave rebellion had indeed spread north of Turtle River; word of the defeat at Solva had traveled fast and far. But the rebellion below the river had an advantage that their fellows above it did not. The Royal Army of Myr's defeat of the Tyroshi army had won them the ability to dispatch cavalry parties to organize and lend aid to the rebel slaves. Without that aid, the slaves here could not hope to stand against either Mero's Second Sons, even reduced as they were from Solva, or the Tyroshi militia, companies of which had been force-marched from the coast to put down the rebellion.

He had beaten down two large parties of rebel slaves before the rest, apparently getting the message, began to flee southward. Mero hadn't taken more than a moment to guess why; if they got south of Turtle River, the slaves would be effectively safe from reprisal. Naharis hadn't said it outright, but Mero could tell that he had more or less given up on trying to reclaim Alalia and its hinterland before the next campaigning season. Mero snorted softly; Naharis was canny enough and no one could deny that he was a brave and good man of his hands, but he couldn't help but think that Tara and Solva had done something to him. It was a rare sellsword that actively sought out a battle, but Naharis had seemed almost reluctant to try conclusions with the Myrish before their march on Alalia had forced his hand. There had been a few moments in the first two sennights of the war where Mero had thought himself in a position to strike a sound blow against the Royal Army, only to have Naharis call him off.

At least Naharis seemed to have not taken the defeat at Solva too much to heart. Indeed he seemed to be newly invigorated by the challenge of holding the line of the Turtle River against the Myrish and putting down a slave rebellion at the same time. Mero had been sent to put the slaves down, but he had heard that Naharis was shuffling companies from one bridge and ford to another on a stretch of the river thirty miles long, trying to create an impression of newfound strength great enough to bluff the Myrish out of attempting a crossing. And for a wonder it seemed to be working, or at least Mero hadn't heard that the Myrish had gotten over the river.

His soldiers began to settle, lowering their weapons and catching their breath after finishing off the last of the wounded slaves. Mero turned in his saddle and waved at the banda of cavalry he had kept as a reserve, sending them trotting forward. The slaves were fighting as hard as they could to keep him from catching up to the columns of their fleeing fellows, but to the best of his knowledge this was the last knot of armed slaves between him and the slowest of those columns. With any luck his cavalry should be able to run them down within another day or so, and then they would have some fun. It would be difficult to keep the lads from satisfying their pleasures before attending to business, but that was why he was riding with them with his personal guard of fifty men. If he took charge of any prisoners with the promise to share them out equally when the work was done, then his men would give them up without too much fuss. Mero demanded discipline, but he rewarded it by being generous and even-handed with the spoils and his men loved him for it.

Not that there were likely to be many spoils if the Tyroshi militia got to the slaves first, but they were infantry and his men were cavalry, so they probably wouldn't. For that matter there would be fewer spoils than usual even with his sellswords, given that they had orders direct from the Archon to spare no male slave over the age of ten who rebelled against his master. Wasteful, in Mero's opinion, but the Archon was paying his bill, so he would follow orders. And the Archon had said nothing about the female slaves.

Mero threw his head back and whooped in anticipation, his men taking up the call as they spurred their horses into a canter.

XXX

Eddard spat aside as he surveyed the bridge of Dubris. It was as great a structure as might be expected for one that bore the main north-south road of a state as rich as Tyrosh, a double-arched span of grey-white stone wide enough for two heavy wagons to pass abreast with room to spare on either side of them. If it could be taken intact, it would be perfect for conveying the army across Turtle River.

The operative word in that sentence, however, was _if_.

"I still say we should try to take it at a rush," Jaime Lannister said, eyeing the flat, even surface of the bridge's roadway and the flat plain leading up to it. "Concentrate our knights and men-at-arms into a single column, send them across at the charge with a company's worth of volunteers from the Legion following them up. If their infantry acts like it did at Solva, they'll break."

"Unless it's that company of Myrish exiles," Ser Brynden Tully said dourly, gesturing at the company of spearmen plugging the far end of the bridge with a wall of shields and the two other companies stacked behind them, ready to lend their weight to any pushing matches. "If it is then they'll stand, like as not, and we'll be stuck out there with no cover but a hip-high wall and our shields, while those bastards," another gesture indicated the hundreds of crossbowmen fanned out on either side of the bridge, "shoot us to pieces. Especially since they're close enough to the bridge to shoot through plate. A glorious failure is still a failure."

"And we wouldn't be able to get enough reinforcements across quickly enough to exploit even if they did break," Eddard added. "Not with those cavalry there ready to pitch in." He pointed to where a banda of enemy horsemen lurked under the trees a medium bowshot away from the bridge. The sellsword cavalry wasn't up to the standard of the Royal Army, but charging into a mass of men disorganized by even a successful charge across the bridge . . .

Jaime frowned, then shrugged. "True enough," he said unwillingly. "And it's not like we can ford the river here." Turtle River was relatively shallow as rivers went, but five feet was still too deep for infantry to wade across into the teeth of massed crossbows. And the muddy bottom would make it even worse going for heavy cavalry; horses hated mud even when they were unloaded for the way their hooves sank into it. With upwards of three hundred pounds of rider, armor, and weapons on top of them their hooves would go into the mud of the riverbed like nails into soft wood. Moreover, the open ground on either side of the river would give the Tyroshi crossbowmen plenty of time to shoot into them as they came and if they had any sense at all, they would aim for the horses first. "Is there another crossing anywhere close?"

Ser Brynden shrugged. "Corbray's scouts tell me there's a ford five miles downriver," he said. "But it's a narrow one and the footing's almost as bad there as it is here. Loose rocks in mud." The captains winced. A man walking across such a surface in heavy armor, especially if he couldn't look down to watch where he was putting his feet, would court a broken ankle with every step. And no horseman worth the name would take a horse across such a ford. It would be more merciful to simply take an axe to the beast's neck and spare it the pain of a broken leg. Ser Brynden turned to the fourth man in their little council. "Maester Gordon, can your Pioneers get a bridge across that ford?"

Gordon scratched at his freshly-shaven chin. "I rode out to take a look at it yesterday," he admitted, "and I'm not confident that they can; the ford's got a guard on it like this one, albeit smaller. If it were just a matter of building the bridge, then it wouldn't be a problem at all. But building a bridge in the face of an enemy covering force and then keeping it up long enough for reinforcements to get across?" He tipped a hand from one side to another. "I won't say it can't be done, but it'd be bloody. We'd probably be better off just laying planks along the bed of the ford, sending the Legion across to drive off the covering force, and then building the bridge."

"All of which would take time," Jaime mused, "Probably enough time for the Tyroshi to send enough men to beat down the bridgehead at the ford while keeping enough here to keep us from storming this bridge." He glared across the bridge at the Tyroshi opposite them. The infantry blocking the far end of the bridge were different companies from yesterday, they could tell that much by the differences in their armor and the blazons on their shields, usually a series of geometric designs but occasionally the odd fantastic beast. "Where in the hells did this bastard get all his new strength from? I thought the Tyroshi only had the one field army?"

"They've probably stripped the coastlands bare to make up the numbers," Eddard said. "It's what I'd do if I had their navy." He glared at the river again and cursed the quirk of history that meant there was only one large bridge within easy striking distance of Alalia. Turtle River, it seemed, had been the border between Tyrosh and Lys until a few decades ago, and as part of the two cities' plans for controlling the flow of trade and people between their territories only one major bridge had been built within four days ride of Alalia. They had even dredged out most of the fords within that radius, save for those that were already impassible to wheeled vehicles like the one Gordon had just dismissed as a crossing site.

He turned his horse to face his captains. "We have to keep at least half of our force here," he said, "in case the Tyroshi try to recross the river." Eddard had six Legion companies and a cavalry company at the bridge; Robert had two Legion companies at Alalia and Lyn Corbray had the two remaining Legion companies and the other three cavalry companies patrolling the country between the river and the Lyseni border. Word of Lys's entry into the war with the raid towards Campora had reached the army five days ago. "Ser Jaime, take three Legion companies, fifty lances, Maester Gordon and his Pioneers, and go upriver. If you can find a practicable crossing point within two day's march, secure it and send word. I'll keep one company and the remaining cavalry here as a covering force and send the other companies to reinforce you." He turned to the Blackfish. "Ser Brynden, I'll need you to remain with me. If the slavers can read our heraldry, then they'll start getting suspicious if the Blackfish disappears." The necessary corollary to that statement, that the Tyroshi would not be so suspicious if the lion of Lannister suddenly vanished, only made Jaime blink, and that mildly. Understandably so; Ser Brynden had had a famous name before either Jaime or Eddard had been born. And that fame hadn't been confined to Westeros.

"You'll move out tomorrow night, Ser Jaime, just before sundown," Eddard continued. "Make a night march in order to get clean away without the Tyroshi taking note, and then a hard day's march to find a crossing." At Jaime's nod of comprehension Eddard nodded himself. "Let's get to work then, sers."

XXX

Lord Vernan Irons sat back in his saddle and stared in disbelief. "Maiden's tits," he said wonderingly, "but I have never seen such a mess in all my born days."

Lord Brynnan Axewell, his sword-brother and fellow corporal in the seventh cavalry company of the Royal Army, laughed humorlessly. "Nor have I," he admitted. "And I've seen Lannisport the morning after the harvest festival. At least that mess stayed in one place."

Just in front of them was a ford that, judging by the evidence, was broad, flat-bottomed, and, best of all, was unguarded. The problem lay in the evidence.

The ford was jammed with people. From edge to edge and bank to bank was a seething mass of humanity so dense that Vernan could hardly see the water of the river. On the far side there were even more people, a milling swarm of bodies that jostled impatiently, almost frantically, to get into the ford and across the river, while even more people streamed into the mass from the road that led northward from the ford. On the near side those who had already crossed were streaming away at a plodding walk, save for those who were staggering aside to collapse from what appeared to be exhaustion. A slight eddy in the river of people had formed where they instinctively shrank away from the sight of armored men on horseback, but otherwise they simply trudged along with their heads down. The cacophony of noise from what had to be at least ten thousand and possibly as many as fifteen thousand people brabbling at each other in various tones of alarm, anger, confusion, and fear was incredible.

Vernan spurred his horse forward, leaned down, and took a man by the arm. "What is this?" he asked loudly and slowly in the Common-Low Valyrian-Dothraki creole that had sprung up in Myr. "Who are you people? What is going on?"

The man he had seized looked up at him with a hunted look in his eyes. "They're behind us," he said dully in thickly accented Low Valyrian. "We need to move. Get across the river before they cut us up."

"They," Vernan said, switching to Low Valyrian as he noticed the collar-scar around the man's neck. "The Tyroshi?" The man nodded, cringing a little in what seemed to be an involuntary reaction. Vernan nodded back. "Keep your people moving," he said, injecting a reassuring tone into his voice. "Anyone falls out, carry them out of the line of march. Keep the road clear."

The man nodded slowly. "Need to keep moving," he agreed. "Need to run, not let them catch us."

Vernan released the man's arm and seized him by the cheek and jaw, turning his face upward to look him in the face. "The Royal Army of Myr does not run," he said, the absolute finality of his voice starting the man out of his blank-eyed fear. "And slavers do not catch us," Vernan went on, "we catch them. Now keep the road clear and your people moving so we can do so." He released the man, straightened up in the saddle, and rode away from the crowd, leaving the man gaping at him. "Courier!" he shouted, summoning a hard-faced young freedwoman on a fine-boned horse that looked like a repurposed racehorse; the couriers of the Royal Army were either men just out of boyhood or a few hard women like this one, as they made the lightest and fastest riders. They were also all volunteers who knew the likely consequences if they were captured by the enemy. The only arms they carried were narrow daggers of the type called "mercy-blades", in order to prevent themselves from falling into enemy hands.

"Message to Ser Jaime," Vernan began. "Have discovered ford but unable to cross. Large crowd of escaped slaves crossing river at ford totally blocking passage. Interrogation of slaves indicates Tyroshi force in pursuit; location, speed, and type of force is unknown. Will hold this side of the ford and attempt to speed up crossing until reinforced. Recommend supplies be brought up to help feed the escaped slaves until they can be sent on to Myr. Do you have all that?" After the courier repeated his words back to him Vernan nodded. "Off with you then." As the courier galloped off Vernan turned to Brynnan. "Let's get our archers placed where they can cover the far side of the ford," he said. "When the Tyroshi get here we'll have to at least be able to shoot them off the rear of this column, even if we can't cross the river and drive them off."

Brynnan cocked an eyebrow. "The Tyroshi are behind this lot?" he asked, unconsciously stroking the head of his axe.

"According to the man I talked to, aye," Vernan replied. "If I had to guess," he went on, gesturing at the horde funneling itself across the river, "I'd say that this is what's left of a failed slave uprising north of the river."

Brynnan nodded, not needing to be told anything further. "We'll have to deploy all on this side of the ford," he said. "No way in hell we'll be able to coordinate a defense if we have to communicate across that lot." He indicated the dense, slow-moving, yet somehow inexorable river of people marching past them.

"Agreed," Vernan said. "Archers, pages, and valets on foot, knights and squires mounted for a countercharge, if they come. Until then, get everyone dismounted, loosen the saddle-girths, and let's do our part to get this herd safe across the river."

Brynnan nodded and turned away, shouting commands. Vernan turned back to survey the column, a grim resolve settling in his bones. The slavers were coming, and likely in some force, but that was what he and his ilk were _for_. It was a knight's duty to defend the weak from those who would do them harm. And even if it hadn't been, Vernan was a man with a powerful sense of obligation. When he had been made a lord after Narrow Run, unexpectedly despite all his hopes, he had effectively struck a bargain. In that bargain he received the land and the castle and the deference of the smallfolk and in return he pledged to fight to the death in the service of his king and the defense of his people.

The moment these people had thrown off their chains, they had become his people. Now they needed his protection against the terror that was pursuing them. And even when he had been a lowly hedge knight with barely two groats to rub together, Vernan Irons had paid what he owed, on the spot and in full. He would not break that record now.


	57. Chapter 57: Limitations

_Following Ser Jaime's defense of Irons' Ford, the war settled into the 'turtle war' pattern first exhibited in the First Slave War. The Army of Tyrosh rebuilt to its former strength within two sennights, but two things prevented it from retaking the offensive. In the first place, the same obstacles that militated against the Myrish forcing a crossing were mirrored against the Tyroshi; the depth of the river, the unsuitable footing of one of the nearby fords and the easy defensibility of the other, and the easy defensibility of the bridge of Dubris all made a forced crossing of Turtle River almost impossible without heavy casualties and unacceptably high vulnerability to a rapid counter-attack._

_In the second place, the morale advantage had swung decidedly in favor of the Royal Army of Myr. Despite the influx of reinforcements, the survivors of the Battle of Solva were not eager to try conclusions against the Iron Legion a second time. A few of the letters that the soldiers wrote in this period have survived and they are universally both downcast about the battle's result and pessimistic about the likelihood of future victory. This might have been less of a problem if their commander had been a man of robust leadership in all military affairs, but for all his battlefield vigor Naharis seems to have preferred a hands-off style of managing the morale of his men. Moreover, Naharis seems to have lost confidence in the ability of his army to win a battle. One of the few documents surviving from the archives of the Tyroshi government of this period is a letter that Naharis drafted in reply to an order-in-council from the Archon to resume the offensive; it is a very laundry list of reasons why such an offensive was impossible, concluding with an assertion that to take the army south of Turtle River would expose it to complete destruction and lay all of Tyrosh's mainland possessions bare to the Iron Legion._

_Faced with such an impasse, and alerted to the mobilization of the royal fleet of King Stannis, the Archon and his council faced a difficult decision which, to their credit, they did not shy away from . . ._

\- _Red Waves: The Slave Wars at Sea_ by Enriquos Feori, published 1050 AC

Councillor Andros Stallar sat heavily in his favorite chair, the one just by the fireplace in his study. It had been a long and draining day for the Archon's Council, with their latest debate. Especially for him, as if his advice had been heeded it would have been unnecessary. "I tried to warn them," he told his wife Doraena. "Gods all witness, I tried to warn them that Baratheon was not to be trifled with, but the fools wouldn't listen. And now look where we are."

Doraena poured a cup of wine from the decanter on the sideboard and pushed it into his hand as she sat on the footstool just in front of the chair. "You did all you could before the Archon decided the matter," she said soothingly. "Could you have stood against him after he made his speech?"

Andros shook his head. "He swayed too many of the doubters," he replied. "One voice raised in opposition would only have been shouted down. And been removed from the council, like enough, in favor of a more supportive one." Theoretically the councilors of the Archon were elected from among their peers for a single six-year term, but unless they incurred the Archon's displeasure or made too many enemies, councilors tended to be re-elected with only a minimum of bother. On the other hand, if they _did_ make too many enemies, or go against the Archon too forcefully too many times, those elections could all too easily swing the other way. Assuming that your enemies didn't manufacture charges of corruption or somesuch that would land you in exile, if not a cell in the Bleeding Tower. It was a known stratagem.

"At least they accepted my proposal," he went on. "After talking about it for eight hours on end." Talking was a somewhat misleading way to describe the day's discussions, of course, but Andros made a policy of minimizing the disturbances of the day when he was at home. It was one of the reasons his private life was so peaceful, as opposed to some of the difficulties that his fellow councilors found themselves in with their wives.

Doraena raised an eyebrow. "They accepted your proposal for a truce, then?" she asked.

Andros nodded. "They made some changes," he allowed. "But the terms we are offering the Andals are essentially the terms I drafted, minus one or two they deemed too objectionable." He smiled mirthlessly. "Even Varoros voted for it in the end."

"Varoros voted to open negotiations?" Doraena asked incredulously. "But his speech just yesterday . . ."

"Bravado, if well-spoken bravado," Andros said. "He can read the strategic situation as well as any of us." With the Iron Legion firmly ensconced in Alalia, Naharis desperately holding the line of the Turtle River and bawling for reinforcements, slave revolts sputtering fitfully across the length and breadth of the mainland, and the Lyseni either unwilling or unable to fulfill their commitment to dispatch an army into south-eastern Myr, it had suddenly become vital to seek as much of a peace as they could get. Even if they had to give up a few concessions, it was better to lose some now and have a decent chance of holding the rest, than bet everything and lose.

Especially since it was reported that the lord of Estermont was riding with King Robert's army. It was reported that there was division between the Baratheon brothers, something to do with a certain Andal priest or somesuch, but who better to patch up such a breach than their mutually beloved grandfather? And if the report was true that he had joined Robert's charge at Solva, which Andros was fully willing to believe given the Andal predilection for such madness, then it was possible that such a rapprochement had already been effected.

"I see," Doraena said, nodding. After a moment of silence her mouth quirked into a half-smile. "Innos will be disappointed," she said, referring to their twenty-year-old second son who had enrolled as a crossbowman in defiance of his father. "His company hasn't been ordered to move to the mainland yet."

Andros shrugged. "At least he'll be alive to be disappointed," he said. "Until the war begins again. As it will, unless we take steps toward a permanent accommodation with the Andals, which we won't." Especially since any such accommodation would require the abolition of slavery in Tyroshi territory, which would be intolerable to the magisters whose estates depended on slave labor to till their fields and work their mines. He shook his head. "If only the Lyseni would send in their army. If they attacked Myr now, while their army is pinned around Alalia, then we would have a chance to destroy the Andals for good and all. Even if they only have half as many Unsullied as they would like."

"They've sent us their fleet, at least," Doraena reminded him.

"Which does nothing to help us destroy their army," Andros replied, "and mark me, wife, we will have no peace in these lands while the Iron Legion exists." There was a reason that, by Tyroshi law, no slave was permitted to own, use, or be trained to use weapons, even if they had been manumitted after long years of loyal servitude. No one was foolish enough to think that their slaves loved them, for all that slaves cooked their food, cared for their children, and warmed their beds. Let a slave once take a weapon in his hand, the wisdom went, and only the gods knew what he would do with it before the end.

XXX

The manse of the Prefect of the East was one of the three largest buildings in Alalia outside the municipal granary and the Temple of Trade, not out of any particular sense of grandeur but because it had housed the Prefect, his family, and the entirety of his staff, from clerks to bodyguards to advocates. This had made it the natural choice for Robert to establish a command post in until the campaign moved on. Which was why Donesso Hestaar, special envoy of the Archon of Tyrosh, was standing in the room that had previously served the Prefect of the East as a courtroom to deliver the Archon's message to King Robert of Myr and the captains of his army.

As Hestaar rerolled the parchment scroll from which he had read the terms that the Archon of Tyrosh offered as the basis of a truce, Robert glanced around the semi-circular table at his captains. What he saw did not give him much hope. Jaime Lannister was only barely concealing a predatory grin. Ser Brynden, by contrast, had a pensive look on his face, while Ned was scowling openly. That made Robert blink. If Ned took against the terms, then this was going to be difficult. Interestingly, Ser Akhollo Freeman had a blankly neutral expression on his face; Robert would have expected him to be spitting fury.

Robert almost wished that his grandfather was present; Lord Estermont loved to play the bluff old reprobate, but he had a sound head on his shoulders for all that. Unfortunately, he was Stannis' man, and so politely excluded from the command council thanks to the lack of an alliance.

He turned his gaze back to Hestaar, who was as defiantly cool as if Robert was the one offering him terms and not the other way around, and raised a finger. "Ser Dafyn," he said to the knight standing behind his chair, "escort Magister Hestaar and his retinue to their quarters. I shall give him my answer after I consult with my officers." Hestaar's lips tightened almost imperceptibly at being snubbed so, but his bow was no less graceful and his gait no less assured as he swept out of the room.

No sooner had the door swung to behind the magister than Jaime slapped the table with a sharp crack. "By the gods, we've got them!" he crowed, his smile fierce. "We can win this whole war with one more push!"

"Perhaps," Ser Brynden interjected, "but why would we want to? They're already handing us a victory, without one more drop of blood needed."

"They wouldn't be offering terms if they still had the strength to fight," Jaime shot back. "I saw it on the Turtle River and I saw it again here; Tyrosh is on its last legs. Your Grace," he turned to face Robert, "let me take the forces along the river and attack across the bridge at Dubris, or at Irons' Ford. If I do not drive the Tyroshi into the sea by the end of this campaign season, then break my spurs and consign me to the infantry."

"And even if you succeed, what will you feed those forces with?" Ser Brynden said, heat creeping into his voice. "We are on the end of a supply chain forty miles long or more, one that can be cut at almost any point along that length by anyone with a light cavalry banda and half the usual ration of ballocks. We have,_right now_, four and a half days of food for the army and not a crust more until the next convoy comes through three days from now. We have something on the order of _twenty thousand_ new subjects to feed and house and resettle, which will cut our margin for error as regards supplies to the bone. And if Naharis has left so much as a crumb within three day's march of the north bank of the Turtle River, then I'll eat my boot without salt and call it a cutlet."

Ned forestalled Jaime's retort with a raised hand. "I agree that our supplies are not satisfactory at this point," he said, "but I too believe that we should reject these terms. They are so paltry as to be insulting."

Ser Brynden's jaw dropped. "They're ceding all the land between Turtle River and the Lyseni border," he said when he finally regained control of himself. "They're acknowledging their guilt over the massacre Ser Lyn found and have sent us the heads of those responsible. They're offering to pay weregild for them and give us Hestaar as a hostage against its payment. They're even offering to order their garrison commanders to refrain from burning the towns they command in the event of defeat. How in all the hells are they _paltry?_"

"They are not abolishing slavery," Ned said flatly. "Nor are they offering us the heads of those responsible for crushing the rebellion north of the Turtle River. Nor are they even apologizing for the deaths their commander here caused when he fired the town. This is not an offer that can lead to peace; this is an attempt to buy us off until they can cudgel their slaves back to the fields and the mines."

"There are twenty thousand of those slaves who they can no longer cudgel, because they have crossed over the river to us," Brynden snapped back. "Under the Charter, we are now _responsible_ for them, until they can be resettled either here or in Myr. If we fight on, then we run the risk of causing a famine in these lands, for us and for them. Would you like to ride into one of their camps a few sennights hence, when the hunger's set in, and tell the mother of a starving child that we are keeping the food out of her child's mouth because we didn't accept peace when it was offered us?"

"Enough," Robert snapped, cutting Ned off even as he opened his mouth to roar at the Blackfish. "Ser Akhollo, what say you to these terms?"

Akhollo tapped his fingers on the table, taking a long second to marshal his thoughts. "I agree that these terms should be rejected, if for different reasons," he said slowly. "The only peace I would have with the slavers is the peace of the grave. But Ser Brynden is right that we should not cause our people to starve, willingly or not. They are _ours,_ now, and we must care for them as our own. If we do not, then we are no better than the masters. As to any question of strategy," he shrugged, "when I hunt a new prey, I seek advice from a man who has hunted it before. After taking that advice I would be a fool not to heed it. It is the same in war, I have found, since I joined you after Pentos."

"Then hear this advice," Jaime said, leaning forward. "We have the Tyroshi by the balls. If we press forward now, we can drive them into the sea and drown them like the curs they are."

"And their fleet with them, with all their marines?" Brynden asked. "And all this with the Lyseni still in the fight? Lord Buckler beat back their raid, aye, but who is to say they might not return with an army? Or, worse yet, send that army against us here, and catch us between the hammer of their army and the anvil of the Tyroshi along Turtle River?"

Ned snapped his fingers. "That, for the Lyseni," he said flatly. "They're brothel-keepers, not soldiers."

"Then why isn't Lyn Corbray here, instead of watching the Lyseni border with half our army?" Brynden demanded. "If the Lyseni are worthless, then surely he's wasting his time when we need his counsel here."

Robert raised a hand, stifling further argument. "Your council is welcome, friends," he said, using his "war-king voice" as Alaesa had called it and suppressing a stab of pain at the thought of her. "But after hearing your council the decision is mine. And I agree with Ser Brynden that we should accept the truce, if only to feed our new people. That said," he turned to Jaime and Ned, who were looking at him with faces made blank by shock, "I note that the truce is only offered under the Archon's signature. The Lyseni are not covered by its terms. And there is a debt there that I would see repaid with interest."

Ned opened his mouth, shut it with a frown, and then nodded. "I will take my household to the border and command the attack myself."

"Make it a raid only, Ned," Robert said. "Pillage and burn how you like, sack any towns you can take without undue losses, but don't let yourself get drawn into a pitched battle unless it can't be avoided. Make the Lyseni howl enough to make their conclave either fight or offer terms."

Ned's face could have been carved from Northern granite. "Howl be damned," he snarled. "I'll make the Lyseni scream loud enough for the dragons to hear them in Volantis."

XXX

Before the Slave Wars, the isle of Tarth had been a backwater. Its lands were more beautiful than rich, it didn't produce anything that couldn't be had elsewhere, and its lords tended to a certain introspection that probably stemmed from the fact that Tarth was usually self-sufficient if the harvest was any sort of good. What it did have was a series of natural harbors along its western coast that the island's bulk protected from the storms that the westerlies blew into Shipbreaker Bay and the coast of the Narrow Sea, combined with a lord who was even-tempered, amiable, and fiercely if quietly loyal to his king. It was for this reason that the Storm Kings of old had based their fleets on Tarth before the Conquest. It was also for this reason that the Braavosi ships pledged to enforce the terms of the Peace of Pentos had relocated to Tarth from windswept Estermont, and why Stannis had ordered the joint fleet to assemble there.

It had come to the attention of the Iron Throne and the Sealord, Stannis had announced in the great hall of the Red Keep with the Braavosi consul only two steps below the Throne, that Tyrosh had broken the terms of the Peace of Pentos, both by murdering Myrish subjects on Myrish soil, as had been sensationally reported, and by unilaterally closing the Sea of Myrth to trade. Therefore, the Seven Kingdoms and the Commune of Braavos had resolved to restore the Peace, punish the breach of its conditions, and secure fitting compensation for the loss inflicted on the Kingdom of Myr. Hence the fleet that had been ordered to assemble on the isle of Tarth, one hundred galleys of the royal fleet of Westeros and thirty-five galleys of the Braavosi fleet under the joint command of Lord Paxter Redwyne and Commander Marquos Dandalo, with a mandate to destroy the Tyroshi fleet and besiege the isle of Tyrosh.

It was, Stannis reflected as he looked down on the principal harbor of Tarth below Evenfall Hall, potentially unwise of him to join the fleet himself, especially without taking command, but it needed to be done. He had made a good start on a martial reputation with the crushing of the Red Viper Rebellion, but his subjects, especially the martial nobility, expected their king to be the foremost knight of the realm as much as anything. His roads and public works, and the alliance with the Braavosi and the boom in trade it had engendered, would not endear him to his nobles half as much as a successful campaign. That being said, he knew very little about how to command a fleet in battle, while Lord Redwyne had first made his name hunting pirates and rogue Ironborn before ascending to the lordship of the Arbor. It had taken some argument, but eventually even Jon Arryn had accepted the wisdom of him ceding command to the more experienced sea captain.

A discreet cough made him turn around to find Lord Selwyn Tarth standing just beyond Lord Commander Penrose. At his raised eyebrow Selwyn bowed shortly, although his long-limbed and slender frame made it look as graceful as a full courtly reverence. "Your Grace," he said in his soft voice, "my steward tells me that supper shall be ready shortly."

Stannis nodded. "Then by all means, let us not keep our people waiting for us," he said, stepping away from the promontory where he had been surveying the harbor. As he walked back towards the castle with Selwyn at his left hand, he felt more than saw Ser Cortnay fall in on his right side as the four other members of the Stormguard on duty today resumed their positions around him. Two dozen Stormguards had followed him onto the great galley_Fury_, the royal fleet's flagship, and if Ser Cortnay had had his way at least half of them would have been on duty, but Stannis had worn him down to four by patiently restating the fact that Tarth was loyal to him not just as King but as Lord Paramount of the Stormlands until Renly came of age. Going about with a dozen fully-armored knights surrounding him would be a mild way of calling that loyalty into question, but an insult was an insult no matter how mild. Lord Tarth had done nothing to deserve such, and Stannis had long since made up his mind not to tread on the hem of any man's honor unless he deserved it.

"Will your daughter be joining us for supper, my lord?" he asked stiltedly; he had never been one for casual conversation, but it was expected in this sort of situation. Thankfully Ser Cortnay had given him some advice on how to go about it.

Selwyn nodded. "She promised to make an extra effort to act in a becoming fashion, in return for being allowed to watch Your Grace's knights at exercise," he replied. He sighed slightly. "She's a good girl, Your Grace, but I must confess that I can't understand her infatuation with arms. Just the day before you arrived, I caught her asking one of my men-at-arms to show her how to hold a dagger. When I asked her why she wanted to learn such things she said it was so she could fight if the slavers ever came." He shook his head. "There are days, Your Grace, when I dread trying to find her a husband. Given . . . well, everything."

Stannis nodded. Brienne was only six but she was already as tall as a boy of eight or nine would be, and judging by the size of her hands and ears she was going to grow even taller. She was also painfully plain-faced and had a habit of forthrightness that might be considered precocious in a child but would be unattractive in a young woman. "If the gods and fortune are good, then they will provide," he said, trying to inject a comforting tone into his voice. After a moment's hesitation he went on. "And if they do not, then I would advise you not to try and force a square peg into a round hole. It may fit, but it won't fit well and it won't hold half as well as it would in a hole of the proper shape."

Selwyn glanced at him. "You would have me encourage her interest, Your Grace?" he asked, plainly somewhat befuddled.

Stannis shrugged. "In time my daughter will need a sworn shield of her own," he observed, hiding the flash of emotion that went through him at the thought of little Joanna. "It would be as well if she had one who would understand things that men would not, and could follow her into places that men could not."

Selwyn's eyes widened, then narrowed. "There is precedent, even," he said after a long moment of consideration. "Jonquil Darke and Queen Alysanne."

"Among others, back through the centuries," Stannis agreed. "It would ease my mind greatly if my daughter's nearest guard were the child of one of my most trusted bannermen."

Selwyn visibly inflated at the compliment, making Stannis sigh slightly to himself. Flattery, he was beginning to accept, was a necessary part of kingship, but he had thought Selwyn too discerning to fall for it. If he had to judge such a thing dispassionately, the list of his most trusted bannermen would start with the Penroses and then go down the roster of his New Nobles. The Tarths of Tarth would be a long way down that scale, if only by comparison. Really, he asked himself as he and Selwyn walked up to the gates of Tarth and the men-at-arms stiffened at their passing, was it too much to ask for people to think logically?

_The Peace of Alalia, whereby Tyrosh ceded that town and all the lands between Turtle River and the Lyseni border to the Kingdom of Myr, was signed the day after Hestaar met with Robert and his officers. Two days afterward, while dispatch riders were fanning out across the newly ceded territory bearing news of the peace and a special delegation was bearing news of the Kingdom of Myr's acceptance to the Archon, Eddard Stark and Lyn Corbray led their troops over the Lyseni border in a two-pronged and highly destructive raid. This offensive, which sparked a general slave uprising in Lys' northern territories, forced the Lyseni to sue for peace in only twenty days. Lys was able to retain all its territories, but the emigration of the slaves in those territories northward to the Kingdom of Myr meant that those territories were temporarily rendered almost useless to the Lyseni exchequer. _

_The question of what might have happened if Robert had known of Stannis' impending offensive is, in the editor's opinion, a moot point. The messenger ravens that the Seven Kingdoms and the Kingdom of Myr relied upon for long-distance, high-speed communication could not cross the Narrow Sea, and even the fastest dispatch galley then in Westerosi service would have been hard put to outrace the Tyroshi (or Tyroshi-contracted) ship that almost certainly set sail from King's Landing as soon as Stannis declared war. The fact that the Tyroshi were operating on interior lines as opposed to their enemies gave them an invaluable edge in speed of communications._

_Moreover, the Kingdom of Myr needed peace almost as badly as the Tyroshi did. With the acquisition of Alalia, a relatively narrow salient had been pushed in between Tyroshi and Lyseni territory, one that was largely devastated by both the movements of the opposing armies and the servile rebellion sparked by the Battle of Solva. The destruction of farms and the disruption of the food-transport network caused by the armies' commandeering of wheeled vehicles came within a hairs-breadth of causing a general famine in the newly acquired lands; the raid into Lyseni territory was undertaken not just to bring them to the negotiating table but also to allow at least a portion of the Royal Army to live off of enemy lands and allow the food that Ser Brynden Tully was shipping into the newly conquered lands to go to the former slaves._

_The restoration of peace on land, however, would have grave consequences on the seas . . ._

\- _excerpted from the Historical Note from the end of _Flash for the Faith!


	58. Chapter 58: A Wine-Dark Sea

Marquos Dandalo, Commander in the Braavosi fleet, nodded judiciously to himself as he surveyed the array of galleys through his Myrish far-eye. Lord Redwyne might not be the most inspired of admirals, but he was certainly competent enough for a Westerosi.

The Westerosi fleet was drawn up into two squadrons of thirty ships apiece formed in line, with a third squadron thirty sail strong formed in column on the left of the lines and the remaining ten ships forming a reserve. Marquos' own squadron, thirty-five galleys, was also formed in column and covered the right flank of the lines. It was the position he had asked for himself, both as the position of honor and as the most difficult position to maintain formation from given the prevailing winds in this region at this time of year. The Westerosi made passable sailors, but the sons of Braavos were born with salt water in their blood; how not, when the livelihood of their city depended on seaborne trade?

Turning his gaze to the Tyroshi fleet opposite them, he couldn't help clicking his tongue in reproof. The Tyroshi admiral, whoever he was, had formed his fleet into three squadrons, but his deployment was unlike any Marquos had seen before. At least sixty galleys were arranged in a column ten hulls abreast in the center, while two thick lines of galleys stretched out from the center column, like wings from the body of a dragonfly. The forming of a column to counter a line was nothing new, indeed every captain in the Braavosi fleet learned that a column was the ideal way to break an enemy line, due to a column's high density of combat power per unit of front and the inertia that successive ranks of galleys imparted. But why was the Tyroshi letting his flanking squadrons oppose nearly twice their numbers, with the way they overlapped both the allied flanking squadrons and part of the center squadrons? Surely, he was not arrogant enough to think that his left flank squadron would be able to oppose Marquos' squadron, especially with Westerosi aid?

"Sir," his flag captain Nicklos Contarenos said, clicking his heels to get his commander's attention, "Lord Redwyne is signaling the advance."

Marquos lowered his far-eye and glanced to the center of the formation to see the red pennon being hoisted up to the masthead of the _Fury_, in the signal that had been agreed upon before sailing from Tarth. "So he is," he replied. "Hoist our own signal to advance, and bid the oarmaster beat double-time." As his flag-captain acknowledged the order and turned away to execute it Marquos raised his voice. "Helmets and gauntlets, gentlemen," he snapped, accepting his morion from his valet. Every man was already in armor, from the walrus-hide jerkins of the rowers to the suits of half and three-quarter plate worn by the marines and officers, but helmets and gauntlets were typically left off until battle was imminent. The gauntlets because they cut manual dexterity to a fraction of what bare hands could achieve, and the helmets because wearing what amounted to a metal bucket on your head in direct sunlight for extended periods of time was an invitation to a splitting headache.

Marquos's valet buckled the chinstrap of his morion as he slipped on his gauntlets, thumping the knuckles of each hand into the palm of the other to make sure they were properly seated. That done he tested the draw of his sidesword and dagger, and glanced to make sure he was within easy reach of the rack of half-pikes that stood by the rail. It was an article of faith in the Commune's navy that its officers led from the front, even Commanders and Admirals. Battle didn't play favorites any more than the sea did.

XXX

Lazario Ahratis, Gonfalonier of Myr-in-exile and Captain-General of its armed forces, smiled predatorially as the Andal fleet and their Braavosi allies sailed forward. They were taking the bait, just as Admiral Ostaan had predicted. Lazario had been leery of predicating a battle plan on the enemy's arrogance, but he supposed he should have expected it to work. What little the Andals lacked in arrogance, the Braavosi surely made up for.

Under ordinary circumstances, that arrogance may have been justified, given the Braavosi skill at sailing and the Andals' skill at close-quarters action. But Admiral Ostaan had a card up his sleeve that should go some way to evening the odds. The average war galley carried seventy-five soldiers in addition to the crew. But the proximity of the fleet to Tyrosh isle, and the subsequent ease with which the fleet could resupply itself, meant that the one hundred and seventy galleys of the combined fleets of Tyrosh, Lys, and True Myr could embark one hundred to one hundred and fifty soldiers apiece, most of them veterans. The soldiers aboard the ten galleys of the Myrish Remnant, for instance, were mostly veterans of the hit-and-run fighting along the Myrish coast in the First Andal War, and those that weren't were men of the Exile Company who had been rushed back from the Turtle River at the first news of the enemy fleet sailing from Westeros.

Lazario tore his gaze away from the Andal ships to look toward the inner front corner of the right flank squadron. Admiral Ostaan had placed his flagship there in order to be able to be in a central position while keeping out of the central column's way. For once the column was launched, he had said in yesterday's conference on the deck of his ship, nothing must stand in its way. The central column was to act as a wedge, splitting the enemy fleet in two and allowing the flanking squadrons to encircle the separated halves and consume them. Lazario had volunteered True Myr's galleys for the duty of leading the central column on the spot. These Andals were not the ones who had invaded and destroyed their homeland, it was true, but the children of Myr were not disposed to be fussy eaters. If Robert the Bloody had sacked their city, it was Stannis who had first allowed him to sail; revenge against the one would serve as revenge against the other. More to the point, Lazario's brother had died in the Sack. It would only be just if Robert lost his own brother, to balance the debt.

A black pennon broke out from the masthead of Admiral Ostaan's ship, and Lazario's smile became shark-like as he turned to the trumpeter that stood on the quarterdeck with him. "Sound the advance," he said shortly, and as the brassy notes sailed away on the breeze he turned to the oarmaster. "Double-time on the oars," he called, "and don't spare the slaves." As the oarmaster gestured acknowledgement and cracked his whip, Lazario turned to face the soldiers arrayed on his deck; true Myrmen to a man, every one of them, or at least in-laws and cousins. "You see that galley in the enemy center there, men?" he shouted gesturing at the great ship flying the Baratheon standard. "That ship is carrying King Stannis of Westeros, Robert the Bloody's brother!" A low growl went up from the soldiers. "I am of a mind to send this Stannis' head to his brother in a box, as a token of the love the sons of Myr have for him! What say you?!"

The soldiers roared approval, thumping the deck with the butts of their short poleaxes.

XXX

The worst part of a battle, Ser Cortnay had once told Stannis, wasn't the way that enough spilled blood could turn the ground into discolored mud. Nor was it the way a man screamed with a spear-head through his wedding tackle, or even the iron-and-sewage smell that inevitably arose when people were cut open with sharp and pointy things. The worst part of a battle, Ser Cortnay had said with his eyes twenty-four years away, was the part when the armies had assembled and squared off against each other but hadn't started fighting yet. That time when the world held its breath to see what would happen next, with the sun beating down on your helmet and the sweat running down under your arming clothes and all the little devils of your imagination painting lurid pictures of all the terrible things that could happen to you, _that _was the worst part of a battle.

Stannis had found this to be so during the Red Viper Rebellion, especially during the Battle of the Greenblood, when he had waited for the ambush for what was surely only a handful of hours but what at the time had felt like at least a year. In theory, he reasoned, having come through that experience, he should be much less prone to that slowly-escalating dread. However, judging by the evidence, namely the butterflies flitting through his bowels, this was not, in fact, the case.

It was entirely possible, Stannis mused, that this was due to the fact that he now _knew_, as only a man who has fought in a battle knows, exactly what could happen to the human body when it comes into contact with sharp metal traveling at high velocity. Or, alternatively, it could be explained by the fact that this was his first sea battle, and fighting at sea had terrors that a land battle did not. For one thing, you didn't have any control over whether or not you went towards the large crowd of angry and heavily armed strangers who wanted to kill you, otherwise known as the enemy. On land you could control that, if you didn't mind being labeled a coward, but at sea you were carried into the fray whether you wanted to be or not.

All this went through Stannis' mind as he stood dead center in the sterncastle, clad head-to-toe in full plate, with a poleaxe in his left hand with the butt-spike planted firmly on the deck by his left foot and his face as calm as a septon's at prayer. His two dozen Stormguards stood around him in a clump, also in full plate and carrying poleaxes, while Lord Redwyne and Captain Fisher stood on either side of the helmsman. Ser Cortnay had attempted to talk him out of wearing full plate, but Stannis had rebutted his argument with the simple fact that the main argument against wearing full plate at sea was that if you went over the side it would drag you down like an anchor. Of course, if you got out of it quickly enough then you could, in theory, swim back to the surface, but this was rendered moot, Stannis had pointed out, by the fact that he had never learned to swim. That being so, the best thing to do was not go over the side in the first place, and that being the case, wearing full armor would be vastly more beneficial than the leather jerkins of the sailors or even the brigandines of the archers. Full plate was heavier than either of those, although a lifetime's training accustomed you to the weight, but when well-made it was as flexible as any other type of armor and far sturdier. It made you almost impervious to sword-strokes, for instance, if not quite a well-placed and lucky thrust, and it made your own body into a weapon if you lost everything else. A blow from a gauntleted fist with a knight's arm behind it was fully capable of caving in a man's face, as Stannis had seen demonstrated at the Greenblood.

On the main deck below them the archers and men-at-arms had crouched behind the shield-hung rails, waiting for the range to close. These archers could comfortably be described as an elite among elites; they were the pick of the Red Keep's garrison, and winning a place in that body of men was no easy feat in and of itself. The archers of the Red Keep disdained shooting at the butts as being an exercise for children, preferring instead to shoot at panels of oak or ash thrown into the air from random points along the range. But shooting from a moving platform to hit a moving target on another moving target with a gusting cross-breeze was an exercise in futility more than anything, even for such archers as these. At sea, Lord Redwyne had explained to them, archers shot as rapidly as they could at close range, and then fought hand-to-hand with the other soldiers.

The time for that, Stannis judged would be soon now, with the nearest galley only a hundred yards away. Lord Redwyne, glancing from that galley to the three others bearing down on the _Fury_, turned to Stannis. "You may want to go to one knee, Your Grace, in order to remain upright," he said, before turning back to the front and shouting, "All hands, brace for impact!" Stannis obeyed, as did his Stormguards, and a moment later Lord Redwyne bellowed, "Archers, stand up! Loose at will!" to which some wit with clearly too much time on his hands shouted back, "Which one's Will?!"

No sooner had the attempted levity passed unremarked than there came a rush of flat plucking notes from the waist and forecastle of the ship, shortly followed by screams from the oncoming galleys. Some knights called the sound of massed archery 'the Hells' harp music', an appellation that archers did nothing to discourage. Only a few moments had passed, however, when there was a dull, grinding _THUMP_ as the _Fury _collided with the slaver galley with a shock that made Stannis stagger, even braced as he was. In the next instant there was another _THUD, _the unmistakable sound of a massed crossbow volley, and then a baying roar of "_Revenge!"_ that almost drowned out Lord Redwyne's shout of "Lash the wheel! All hands, repel boarders!"

Stannis surged to his feet to behold a scene from one of the bloodier depictions of the Seven Hells. They had been grappled on both the port and starboard bows by slaver galleys. The forecastle was already overrun, and the main deck was a maelstrom of battle, archers and men-at-arms grappling with slaver soldiers who seemed, judging by the black bands they wore around their upper arms and the heraldry on their ships' banners, to be Myrish exiles. Nor did the predicament end there; as Stannis watched two more slaver galleys, these ones also in Myrish colors, wedged themselves between the _Fury _and the ships on either side of her, while behind them came a steady stream of galleys that poured into the gaps thus opened. As the Myrish galleys on either side began to throw out their own grappling irons, Stannis turned to his Stormguards. "Sers," he said calmly, "it would appear that our assistance is required on the main deck. Ser Cortnay, take half the men and go down the port gangway; hold it open for our men to retreat to the sterncastle. I shall do the same for the starboard gangway with the other half. Go with the gods, sers, and fight well."

XXX

As Marquos Dandalo saw the slavers' central column strike home, he knew, instantly and with terrible clarity, what their plan was. A heartbeat later, he knew that there was nothing he could do to stop it. He was too far away from the point of crisis, and even if he was his ships were too few.

More to the point, the formation was too shallow. In order to keep a column like that from breaking through, a line would have to be at least half and preferably two-thirds as deep as the column was.

That said, he realized in the next heartbeat, as the rear ranks of slaver ships opposite him started to turn towards the center, the same thing also applied on this flank.

He turned to his trumpeter. "Sound _full speed, close order, _and_follow me_, now!" he snapped, barely acknowledging the man's nod before turning to his Captain Nicklos. "Take us right through that line, Captain," he ordered. "We'll break that line open, and then turn inwards and start cutting into the center." He described a wheeling motion with his hands.

It was a risky maneuver, and one that would expose them to being attacked from the bow and the beam if Marquos was wrong, but all seamanship, especially military seamanship, was based on discipline. Nicklos nodded briskly and then turned away to give the necessary orders. Marquos tested the draw of his sword again and touched the three-fold moon engraved on the pommel for luck. _Moonsingers,_ he prayed, _please let this work._

XXX

A battle between galley fleets is very much like a battle on land, in that it very quickly devolves into a general melee. This is due to the fact that the surest way to capture and/or destroy an enemy ship is to board it, and there are few fancy maneuvers involved in a boarding action. The order of the day for such a thing is speed, shock, and fury, with no quarter asked or given. In shipboard combat, he who hesitates dies.

The Tyroshi, Lyseni, and True Myrish understood this; it had been instilled in them by generations of fighting against pirates, Volantenes, Braavosi, Summer Islanders, each other, and occasionally Westerosi. The Westerosi did not.

Not that the Westerosi were poor fighters. A goodly proportion of them were veterans of the Rebellion or the Dornish war, and a few had fought with the Sunset Company at Pentos or Tara. But when it came to sea-fighting, they were novices facing experts, and experts who had upgraded their own armor and weapons in order to stand a chance against fully armored men-at-arms, at that.

That said, they were numerous, heavily armed, and well-trained novices, and so even on the left flank, where there was no counterstroke like the one the Braavosi made on the right, they made the masters pay in blood. The great galley _Royal Stag_ changed hands three times before her last surviving officer opened the seacocks under the feet of the Lyseni who finally captured her. _Stormrider _and _Sapphire Spray_, captained by a pair of cousins from Tarth, grappled each other rail-to-rail and fought alone against three-to-one odds for two hours before being overwhelmed. Aboard the _Warrior's Gift, _ten Knights of the Crown and thirty archers defended the sterncastle of the ship so ferociously that the Tyroshi were forced to scuttle the ship underneath them. A Lyseni poet, who was later famous for his lay _The Fall of Myr_ and was present at the battle, would later write that "the roar of battle drowned out all other sound, and the sea became dark as wine with blood."

But the fiercest contest was that waged in the center, where the _Fury _remained unconquered.

XXX

Stannis staggered back from the front line, knocked his visor up on the third attempt, and gulped down air. He was already as tired as he had ever been in his life, and if he was any judge the day was nowhere near over yet.

Not even at the Greenblood had he seen so much death packed into so small a place. By his estimate there were at least fifty or sixty dead men lying on the _Fury_'s deck, and there would be more if the slavers and the Westerosi alike hadn't taken the time in between bouts of murderous fighting to heave bodies over the side into the sea to keep them from getting underfoot. The gangways seemed to have been painted almost a solid coat of red, and the main deck was liberally splashed with gore. Eight times the slavers had attempted to storm the sterncastle of the _Fury_, and six times they had been bloodily repelled. And not without cost; of the twelve Stormguards that Stannis had led down the starboard gangway, only five were still standing. Ser Cortnay, on the port gangway, had seven Stormguards still on their feet. Twenty archers had made it to the sterncastle, but only nine still lived and their arrows had run out three charges ago. They and the twelve remaining men-at-arms, a mixture of Redwyne men, New Nobles, and Knights of the Crown, were the only reserve remaining. Lord Redwyne was dead, having taken a poleaxe spike to the throat in the fourth charge. Captain Fisher had died in the second charge with a crossbow bolt through the eye.

At the foot of the gangways the slavers were catching their breath. They had mounted eight assaults in six hours, and were apparently no closer to victory now than they had been when they forced the Andals back into the sterncastle. But Stannis knew they would come again. For the Myrish exiles among them, the lure of revenge against House Baratheon would be irresistible. The Tyroshi and Lyseni didn't have that same impulse, or at least not as strong a one, but they had another motive. How great was a king's ransom? Stannis had no idea, no ransom had been demanded in the Defiance of Duskendale and no other king in living memory had been taken captive, but it would certainly be beyond even a magister's wildest dreams of avarice.

He straightened up, waving away a waterskin held by an archer with a brusque command to give it to the knights first. The question, if he had anything to say about it, would be moot. He was not Robert, but he was no laggard when it came to slaying; his poleaxe was irretrievably embedded in a Myrman's head, and his longsword was red from point to quillons. At the very least, he could fight hard enough to make the slavers kill him. Jon Arryn, Tywin Lannister, and Mace Tyrell could hold the Kingdoms together until Lyonel came of age, and Cersei would find a good match for Joanna.

His only regret, he decided, was that he would not see his son and daughter grow up.

The slavers were starting to edge forward again; evidently they were beginning to regain their nerve. Stannis was about to close his visor and resume his place in the line when a deep-toned horn sounded and a guttural shout in some hard, yet lilting tongue momentarily overrode the noise of battle. Over the rails of the slaver galleys that had grappled the _Fury_ there came a wave of men in knee-length ring-mail hauberks wielding broad-bladed axes, followed by lighter-armored men with spears and round, center-bossed shields. The slavers wheeled to face them, but at the first shock of impact dozens went down. Stannis, his resigned stoicism turning to furious hope by the unlooked-for reinforcements, raised his longsword and pointed it at the slavers. "At them!" he bellowed hoarsely.

The Stormguards clattered down the gangways to the deck, Stannis forcing his way to the front as the men-at-arms and archers crowded behind them. By the time they charged into the slavers, however, their resistance was already broken; surprised in their rear by fresh enemies and charged in front by the foes they had assailed unsuccessfully for so long, their only thought was to flee. Many of them managed to clamber over the rails of their ships and away to safety, but as many were caught on the deck of the _Fury_ and cut to pieces; the Westerosi were in no mood to show mercy to the enemies who had threatened to massacre them for so long.

Stannis knocked up his visor again to find himself confronted with a tall, well-built man with a steel breastplate and arm-guards over his hauberk and a gold kraken inlaid on the breastplate. "Lord Greyjoy," he said, once he had re-caught his breath, "my thanks for coming to the rescue. But how on earth . . ."

"Sailed around the right flank, Your Grace," Euron replied, "and then went up the center where the slavers' column went in. Silly buggers didn't leave a reserve." Euron raised the visor of his pot-helm to reveal a grimace of distaste on his saturnine face. "Not that the bastards seem to need it," he added, gesturing northward with his axe.

Stannis looked and felt his heart sink. The whole left of the fleet was enveloped in a ring of slaver galleys, and judging by the positions of the banners, the slavers were starting to digest the ships caught inside the envelopment. "We can still salvage something," he said. "With your men reinforcing us and the Braavosi . . ."

"The Braavosi are busy holding off the slavers on the right," Euron replied. "They've pushed them back towards the center, but that's as far as they can go. There's no hope of salvaging this, Your Grace, that half of your fleet's lost." He said this in a voice as dry as if he were commenting on the weather. "But if we go now, Your Grace, we can still get the rest of the fleet away while the Braavosi hold them off."

Stannis shook his head reflexively. "No," he said stubbornly. "No retreat. I will not abandon our allies. Not while we can still fight."

"Your Grace, we can't fight," said Ser Cortnay, who had joined the conversation wiping blood off his poleaxe with a scrap of sail. "We haven't got twoscore men left on their feet, and the Ironborn aren't enough to break into that lot." He turned to Euron. "No offense meant, my lord, but even an equal number of knights, even an equal number of Stormguards, wouldn't make much of a difference in that," he gestured at the cauldron of battle that had enveloped the left flank. "They'd get in, maybe, but then they'd just die with the rest."

Euron nodded. "I agree, as it happens," he said. "I say we get out of this while we can, rebuild, and try again with a better plan."

Stannis frowned, turned to survey the men under his command. The Stormguards had gone to their knees, blowing like winded horses, and the other men-at-arms were in little better shape. "Very well then," he said grudgingly, "though you both are witnesses that I would not turn from this field if my men were still able to fight. Let us away, sers."

XXX

Marquos, leaning on his half-pike in the lull that invariably followed the repulse of an enemy boarding attempt, looked out to where the one lieutenant remaining to him was pointing and felt his heart sink. About half a mile beyond the edge of the combat, eight longships of distinctively Ironborn make were rowing south, the masthead of the lead ship displaying the standard of King Stannis and the two white pennons signaling a general retreat. The Westerosi were fleeing, and by the looks of it in some disorder, as Stannis had evidently transferred his flag from the _Fury_ to the _Unspeakable_.

Another man might have shaken his fist and raged against the perfidy of the Westerosi with all the power of invective granted by thirty-five years at sea. But officers of the Commune were expected to act with a dignity becoming of their office. Besides, Marquos decided, he didn't have the energy left to properly curse the Westerosi and do what he had to do next. After giving a short order to the lieutenant, who to his credit only gulped once before turning to carry it out, he straightened up and called for the attention of his crew.

"Gentlemen," he said formally in a voice pitched to carry over the roar of the nearby combat, "it has been a privilege to serve with you. In one minute, I shall hoist the black pennon. Any man who wishes to quit the Commune's service before that is done may do so without penalty, on my honor and my family's."

His men exchanged looks. In sea battles, pennons flown from a command ship had a range of generally accepted meanings, red for 'attack', white for 'retreat', and so forth. The rarest of these was the black pennon, on account of what it represented. An admiral who hoisted the black pennon was ordering his men to fight to the death, with no quarter asked or given and no consideration given to retreat. In the Braavosi fleet it was mandated that the black pennon not be flown except 'in cases where the honor or the survival of the Commune is contingent upon the conduct of the Commune's forces.' The survival of Braavos was not in question, here, but honor certainly was. Marquos had no position in either the Sharks or the Whales, but by all the gods, he would show the world that the sons of Braavos did not run, even if their allies did.

Which was why he was offering his men the choice of whether or not to continue fighting. To stay and fight would almost certainly mean the death of them all, especially since the Westerosi ships were already starting to peel away from the battle as more and more of them saw their king ordering the retreat. Once the black pennon was raised, then by the laws governing the Braavosi fleet every officer and every sailor who saw it was obligated to fight to the bitter, bloody end, with execution in disgrace awaiting the man who broke ranks. The millstones of the Commune's justice turned slowly in most cases, but when it came to military misconduct they turned very fast indeed, while still grinding infinitesimally fine. That said, Marquos' pledged honor that they would not suffer any penalty for refusing to fight on would protect them from the court, especially since he had invoked his family's honor as well.

But these men were Braavosi sailors, and they knew the traditions of their fleet. Moreover, they meant to prove, for good and all, that the children of the Titan had not forgotten how to fight against the evil of slavery. Or so the bosun reported to Marquos, after a hurried consultation among the common sailors and soldiers. The lieutenant, when the choice was put to him after he returned with the pennon in his arms, simply snorted and said, "Don't be ridiculous, sir." Well, Marquos decided, the lieutenant was a young man, and an unabashed Shark besides, who had volunteered for the fleet to fight slavers. If he wanted to uphold his words with his body, then that was his affair. As for Marquos himself, he knew the penalties that Braavosi law dictated for a defeated commander. There was some leeway allowed for unforeseeable circumstances or treachery on the part of an ally but not much, and the shame of defeat would be a heavy blow to his family. That said, it was recognized that a valiant death in the Commune's service could expiate a multitude of sins, especially for those who had been serving as an adjunct of an ally's fleet and been betrayed.

Marquos bowed shortly to his crew. "Thank you, gentlemen," he said in a voice half-choked by sudden emotion, and then turned to the lieutenant. "Hoist the pennon, lieutenant, if you please."

As the long roll of black cloth was hoisted up the mast and unfurled by the north-easterly wind, Marquos passed his half-pike to the lieutenant and drew his side-sword and dagger. "For honor and freedom, gentlemen," he called out in a voice that had bellowed over tropical storm and arctic gale. "At them!"

His men echoed the battle cry to the heavens as they followed him over the rail.


	59. Chapter 59: Grief and Wrath

_Stannis managed to make good his escape from the Battle of Tyrosh, along with twenty-seven galleys of the royal fleet; the other seventy-three were either sunk or captured, with the loss of almost nine thousand men. The Braavosi squadron was almost totally destroyed, with the few prisoners either dying of their wounds or being executed for being unlikely to fetch a ransom. The combined slaver fleet lost only twenty galleys sunk (those that had been captured were abandoned by the fleeing Westerosi and recaptured); accounts of their losses vary from four to eight thousand, but they are unanimous that the exiled Myrish sustained the heaviest casualties of any of the contingents 'due to the valor with which they made their assaults and the prowess of the Andals they fought', in the words of a Lyseni chronicler._

_The reaction in Westeros was one of shock, especially when Stannis made his first pronouncement concerning the rebuilding of the royal fleet . . . _

\- _Red Waves: The Slave Wars at Sea_ by Enriquos Feori, published 1050 AC

Euron Greyjoy, as of yesterday evening the new master of ships, poured out a glass of Dornish red for himself and passed the bottle to his guest. "So," he began, "what do we have, what do we need, what can we get?"

Ser Symond Templeton, the Knight of Ninestars and new commander of the Gulltown fleet, accepted the bottle with a grateful nod. "What we have is twenty-seven galleys of the royal fleet that got away from the battle," he said, filling his glass, "plus another fifty galleys and eight cogs from my uncle's fleet. Enough to hold Blackwater Bay and patrol off Massey's Hook, but not to offer battle. To do that, we'd need about as many ships again, if only to both be able to offer battle and defend the coast."

Euron nodded. "At least the Stormlands and Dorne are poor pickings for raiders," he observed. "Lightly settled coastlines and what settlements there are have castles full of belligerent men-at-arms hard by them. And it's a rare raider that'll willingly go into Shipbreaker Bay and risk the storms." Euron didn't mention that the Ironborn had learned that lesson the hard way; his brother might have mentioned it, but Balon was an uncultured boor.

Ser Symond nodded. "And word's come from the Arbor and the Westerlands of aid," he said. "Horas Redwyne with twenty ships for a year, and five Lannister galleys to serve at His Grace's pleasure and Tywin's expense."

Euron raised an eyebrow. "Well, that's quite handsome of the Old Lion," he said. "Of course, it's his daughter in Stannis' bed and his grandson who's next in line for the throne." He sipped at his glass, savoring the tartness of the Dornish wine. "Still not enough for us to try and take the waves against the slavers though."

"Which should change within a few months," Ser Symond replied. "Once the new ships are built."

Euron shook his head. "I give it eight months to a year, at least, before the new fleet is ready," he said. "More probably a year and a half to two years. A galley you can make in two or three months, with enough shipwrights and materials, but making a good sailor takes a year or more, at least half of which has to be spent at sea. Making a good captain takes longer, and we have so few of them left, now."

Ser Symond made a face, but nodded, conceding Euron's point. Part of old Grafton's plot for taking the royal fleet out of the service of the Targaryens had involved killing those captains who were still loyal; about three in every seven or so, as it had transpired. The men who had succeeded them had been good enough seamen, but most of them had died off Tyrosh, leading their crews from the front. Euron could understand the need to prove oneself worthy of the captaincy, but they could at least have fought well enough to stay alive. "And there's another problem," Ser Symond said, leaning over the table. "Lord Arryn tells me that some of the lords are protesting at the cost of raising a new fleet. More than usual, I should say; lords always protest against paying new taxes. Or any taxes at all, really."

Euron tipped his head to the side. "They're not refusing to pay, are they?" he asked.

"No, His Grace's stock hasn't sunk so low with them yet," Ser Symond replied. "But if he suffers another defeat, they might. Or at least refuse to do so without some sort of concession. His Grace's reforms are broadly popular, especially among those who benefit from them, but broadly is not universally. The Knights of the Crown are being viewed with a jaundiced eye, especially on Crackclaw Point and among the petty lords and landed knights along the upper Mander."

Euron nodded. "And the gods know that my brother Balon is no friend of His Grace," he said. "Not since the affair of Ser Harras Harlaw." That had finally been settled with Ser Harras volunteering to foreswear his claim to Harlaw so long as he was allowed to inherit Grey Garden. Balon had, reportedly, been displeased at the young knight bypassing him in such a way, but he had eventually dropped his objections. The current silence from Pyke, both about the Battle of Tyrosh and any aid coming to the Iron Throne, was more than a little troubling; Euron wouldn't put it past his brother to be vindictive, even with a brother's reputation at stake.

Although now that he thought of it, he mused as he swirled the wine in his glass, that reputation might be what was making him so reticent. For an Ironborn to rise high in royal service would have been unthinkable as little as five years ago. With some justice, Euron was prepared to admit, with Dagon's raids only barely outside living memory and the memories of Dalton the Red still fresh in the Westerlands and the Reach. It had taken a king like Stannis, immovably tied to the Lannisters and unafraid of exploiting talent wherever it was found, to start bringing the Ironborn into the fold. Admittedly it was Victarion, that bone-headed ox Victarion, of all people, who had kicked the door open with his victories in Robert's service, but Euron had _not _expected to be hailed as a hero by the people of King's Landing, even after saving Stannis' life off of Tyrosh. The cheers of the smallfolk, and the approbation even of the lords and knights, had been a heady drug indeed. One that Balon, stiff and prideful as he was, would resent his brothers receiving while he remained starved of all but the usual respect due to a lord.

He concealed a grimace with a swig from his glass. "In any case, ser, until we get the new ships and the new crews training, we'll have to hold Blackwater Bay with what we have. It would probably be best if we drafted a patrol schedule that mixed both royal and Arryn ships; I had a few ideas . . . "

XXX

The city of Tyrosh celebrated loud and long their victory over the feared Andals and the hated Braavosi. Not in the past century had such a victory been won, and when set against the defeat of Solva and the loss of Alalia it seemed all the greater. Wine barrels stood open at every street corner, compliments of the Archon, and musicians played for the throngs that danced with wild abandon to celebrate the victory. Even the length of the casualty lists had not been able to dampen the celebratory mood; the train of captured galleys towed into the harbor with their masts unstepped and their banners trailing in the water behind them had been too great a declaration of victory, and while the casualties had been heavy they had not been crippling by any stretch of the imagination. The pool of experienced seafarers in the Free Cities was equaled in numbers only by that of Braavos, and such men could become fighting sailors with only minimal training and equipment.

Only in the neighborhood that had been given over to Myr-in-exile was the mood less than jubilant, and nowhere less so than in the manse where the effective government of Myr-in-exile were meeting.

"How many?" Stallen Naerolis demanded, not believing his ears.

"Two hundred and eighty-seven survivors," replied Brachyllo Hestos, the senior surviving officer of the fleet of True Myr. "Almost all of them wounded to one degree or another. At least five are expected to die before the sennight is out, and I can tell you now that some twenty will never fight again except at direst extremity."

Stallen turned to Noriros Brenion, who was the closest thing that True Myr had to a treasurer; a childhood accident had left him with a twisted leg that prevented him from fighting, but he had a better head for numbers than any man Stallen knew of. "How many men does that leave us?" he asked softly.

Noriros pursed his lips and glanced at the ceiling, his fingers twitching as he calculated. "I'd have to take a census," he finally admitted, "but no more than five hundred and fifty. And that includes distant cousins, in-laws, and every man between the ages of fourteen and seventy who can stand and hold a crossbow. If we lose them as well . . ."

"Then our people die," Stallen said, nodding. "Not this generation, perhaps, but certainly the next, or the one after." He placed his head in his hands and groaned. True Myr had never been populous; of the whole citizenry, only about ten thousand had been able to assemble on Tyrosh isle, either escapees from the ruin of Myr or people who had already been overseas. Two years of war had inflicted losses on their men of fighting age, but in the space of barely three months they had been cruelly reduced. Five hundred men had been lost at Solva, and for this latest battle they had fielded just over a thousand. By all reports their bravery had been instrumental in the victory, but at terrible cost; eight in ten of the last strength of Myr-in-exile now rested beneath the waves. All that remained of them were women, children, a few elders, relations and in-laws of increasingly tenuous connection, and those five hundred men Noriros had just mentioned. If indeed there so many left.

And all of their deaths had been for naught; Myr was not reconquered, nor did Robert the Bloody lie dead with his corpse left to rot unburied. Nor did they have even the modicum of vengeance that slaying Stannis would have brought. All reports of the battle agreed that Stannis had escaped, denying them even that shred of retribution.

"Gods only know how we shall maintain our fleet and the company, after this," Brachyllo said, scratching at the bandage around his left arm, which was cradled in a sling thanks to an Andal mace.

"We won't be able to," Noriros replied. "We simply don't have the men."

"Preserve the fleet," Stallen said through his hands. "At all costs, preserve our fleet." He raised his face out of his hands. "So long as we have our own ships, we are still free. If we give them up, then we place ourselves at the mercy of our allies' generosity." Stallen thought a moment more. "Who is in command now?"

Brachyllo shrugged. "I suppose I am, as the senior surviving officer," he said, "but I'm better with a sword than a word. I'll let you have it if you want it."

Stallen shook his head. "I hold no formal rank," he said. "I'm a spy and an occasional errand boy, not a commander."

Noriros raised a finger. "Why not share power between the three of us?" he asked. "Brachyllo can be our strength, you, Stallen, our eyes, and I can be our mind."

Stallen and Brachyllo exchanged glances; Brachyllo shrugged. "I have no objections," he said.

"Nor I," Stallen said, raising his glass of watered wine. "Good fortune to us, gentlemen. The gods know we need it."

"Hear, hear," Brachyllo said despondently as he and Noriros raised their own glasses and touched them to Stallen's. As they each sipped from their glasses, Brachyllo frowned. "I confess to be at a loss as to how to proceed," he said almost sheepishly. "Reconquer our city, by all means, but how? And what do we do in the meantime? Some of the widows have been asking."

Stallen shrugged. "Don't ask me. Just a minute ago I was a spy; you don't tell a spy what your long-term plans are." He looked at Noriros. "Did Lazario ever tell you what his plans were?"

Noriros shook his head ruefully. "He kept them all in his head," he said dully. "I have no more idea of how to proceed than you gentlemen do."

The new Triarchs of Myr looked into their glasses morosely.

XXX

The Council Chamber in the Palace of the Sealord was silent. The Council of Thirty prided itself on the sobriety and thoughtfulness of its deliberations, usually only requiring the Sealord to recognize the next councilor to speak, but news of the defeat off Tyrosh had shocked the chamber into silence. Not in the past hundred years had the Titan suffered such a defeat.

Finally, Radalfos Solazzo broke the silence. "Cursed be the fate," he said softly, "that led us to shed the blood of our men in a fight not our own."

"Coward."

Every man's head jerked up at that flat statement. It wasn't unknown for the Council's disputes to be fierce, but they were _always_ carried out with the appropriate degree of propriety. Blatant insults were for street-walking bravos in their gaudy suits and raucous winesinks, not the soberly dressed magisters of the Council of Thirty in their austerely appointed chamber. Vulmaro Bertone, however, had apparently forgotten that rule, having shot to his feet and spat out the word like a blow.

"What did you just call me?" Solazzo asked, his voice dangerously quiet.

"I called you a coward," Bertone snarled back. "A craven lickspittle with no more balls than a capon. This fight is, _and always was_, our fight. If there is a fate to be cursed, it is that fate that has led us to forget that fact for so many years, and forsake the First Law for the sake of _profit._" He spat the word like a curse.

Solazzo rose to his own feet. "You speak of profit like an Andal," he hissed. "Have you forgotten that it is that same _profit_ that raised you to the dignity of a magister? That it is _profit_ that put those robes on your shoulders and filled your family's accounts?"

Bertone hunched his shoulders like a boxer preparing to close. "At least I have never trafficked with _slavers_, as you have done," he spat back, his voice rising. "Did you refuse to ask where the money they paid you with came from or did you simply forget in your dotage?"

The Council was on the verge of erupting, with supporters of Solazzo and Bertone leaping to their feet and the Sealord gesturing to his First Sword, when there was a sudden and insistent _thump, thump, thump, thump. _All eyes turned to old Fortunato Dandalo, at eighty-nine the oldest member of the Council, who lowered his walking stick from where he had raised it to continue thumping against the marble floor. "My lord," Dandalo said, his voice softened by age but still strong for a man of his years, "I would speak."

The Sealord nodded. "Magister Dandalo," he said respectfully, "the Council hears you."

As old Dandalo slowly rose to his feet the other councilors sank back into their chairs. Fortunato Dandalo had sat on the Council longer than any of them, and reportedly had never been elected Sealord only because he did not wish the post. His prestige was tremendous, and his influence considerable. The Dandalos were one of the oldest and richest families in Braavos, with a web of power and influence that spanned half the world. Fortunato's great-grandfather had been the Sealord, and he had reportedly had high hopes for a nephew. No longer, however.

"Profit and honor," Dandalo began, folding his hands atop his walking stick. "These are the watchwords of our Commune, gentlemen; the words by which we live our lives. Profit, for the lands we call our home are poor and cannot provide us the sustenance that we require. There is no shame in this, gentlemen, but great pride, that from a huddle of escaped slaves with no wealth to our names we have become one of the great powers of the world by our industry and our acumen." There were nods around the room; there was no truer measure of a state's wealth, these men knew, than the strength of its merchant fleet.

"But equal to profit, gentlemen, is honor," Dandalo continued. "Honor that we trade honestly, weigh and measure fairly, fulfill our contracts faithfully, and uphold our laws rigorously. And the First of those laws, gentlemen, is this: _No man, woman, or child shall be a slave, thrall, or bondsman._" Dandalo's eyes, old but still keen, swept around the room. "We have executed that law most faithfully in Braavos, gentlemen, but in the rest of the world we have failed it. On my first voyage, when we stopped at Lys, a young woman came to our ship and threw herself at the feet of the guard at the bottom of our gangplank begging to let on board. She would go wherever we did, do whatever we asked, if only we took her away, for she could not bear to spend another day in her master's house. Not a moment later, two bravos, men in the livery of one of the pleasure houses, came out of the crowd and laid hands on her. I, being young, reached for my sword but the captain stayed my hand. It was not for us, he said, to bid defiance to the laws of the lands where we traded."

Dandalo looked down at his folded hands. "Every night for the rest of that voyage," he said softly, "I heard the screams of that poor woman as the bravos dragged her back into the crowd. When we returned, I reported this to my father, and requested that he dismiss the captain from our house's service for breaking the First Law. To this my father shook his head. It was the way of the world, he said, that not everyone could be saved. If I were wise, I would learn that there were things that I could not change and people I could not save, and not concern myself with them."

Dandalo looked up, his face set. "Seventy-four years ago, that was," he continued, a hint of a shake in his voice, "and from that day forward I took my father's advice. I learned to look away and turn aside, to close my eyes and stop up my ears. I learned to accept the money of my customers, and load their goods for transport, and not question where either had come from. I learned to ignore, gentlemen, that the greater part of our trade, the trade that sustains we descendants of escaped slaves, is borne on the backs of slaves. After all, there was nothing I could do about it."

He thumped his walking stick on the floor; a few of the councilors, rapt, jumped in their seats at the surprise. "But this is no longer the case," he said, his voice hardening. "Where we have failed, a new champion has stepped forward to take up the fight. Where we have learned to fold our hands, he has ridden forth to strike hammerblows. Where we have decided to ignore the evil of slavery, he has sworn to wage war without mercy upon it where ever it might be found." Dandalo's gaze swept around the room. "That man's name," he said softly, "is Robert Baratheon, King of Myr."

"I admit it, gentlemen," Dandalo went on, "that when Robert first sent to us for our aid, I was one of those who was suspicious. What might this Andal do in his quest for vengeance, I asked myself. What damage might he do to the trade that sustains us and makes us wealthy? What ills might he wreak, uncaring of the gossamer strands of knowledge and trust and money that we rely upon for our livelihoods? I fear, gentlemen, that my suspicion was misfounded. What I should have been asking was this: _What might this man do, if he sees what we have learned to ignore for so long?_"

Dandalo thumped his walking stick again. "The answer, gentlemen, is that Robert Baratheon has done more to advance the First Law of Braavos in the past three years than we have done in the past three hundred. He has disrupted our trade, yes; I myself lost old and valued customers and contacts in the Sack of Myr. But more than this, he has challenged our honor. When Robert led ten thousand men against Tyrosh, determined to stamp out slavery in that state's lands, we sent a mere thirty-five galleys, only a tithe of our strength, to enforce the conditions of a peace that we knew to be unjust and insulting. I had a hand in crafting the terms of that peace, gentlemen, and my nephew Marquos lies beneath the waves off Tyrosh for his efforts to enforce it. I accept this as the punishment the gods see fit to visit on my house for my complicity in the evil of slavery, and for my part in the Peace of Pentos."

He reached into a fold of his robes and drew out a small roll of parchment. "My eldest grandnephew, as you gentlemen might be aware, styles himself a Shark," he said. "Ten days ago, he wrote this doggerel and presented it to me, professing himself dissatisfied with the meter and asking if I had any advice for him. With the Sealord's approval, I shall read it out." At the Sealord's nod, Dandalo unrolled the parchment and cleared his throat. "_Raise the broken sword high/with freedom's fire in your eye./ Let the dragons dread/ the ports where freemen tread./ From the fire-choked caves/ unto the free waves,/ Carry the law writ in stone/err the dragons burn thee to bone./ And with your final breath/ pay the slaver death."_ He re-rolled the parchment and raised it high. "My eldest grandnephew, gentlemen, is but twenty-seven years of age, and in these words he has, unknowingly, given a worthy epitaph to his father and a challenge to us all. Shall we continue to fail the First Law, the root and wellspring of all our freedoms, or shall we, at long last, open our eyes and raise our hands? Choose as you will, gentlemen; I have chosen already. The honor of the Commune demands it of me." Dandalo turned toward the Sealord. "My Lord," he said formally, drawing himself up with all the terrible dignity of his years, "I move that the Commune of Braavos immediately seek a military alliance with the Kingdom of Myr, and further move that the war-fleet of the Commune be immediately prepared for war against the city of Tyrosh."

Bertone leaped to his feet. "I second the motion!" he shouted.

The Sealord nodded gravely. "The motion is proposed and seconded," he said. "I open the floor to debate." No sooner had the words left his mouth than Solazzo shot to his feet roaring to be recognized, backed up by his supporters. Not as many supporters, however, as he had started with, the Sealord noticed. Ordinarily, Solazzo could rely on the support of twelve of the Thirty; only five councilors joined Solazzo in shouting opposition to the motion. Of the other seven, three were still in their seats looking around them uncertainly and the other four had apparently been swayed by Dandalo's speech. Ferrego Antaryon, Sealord of Braavos, pursed his lips. _This,_ he thought sourly, _does not look very promising._

XXX

Adaran stared at the wall listlessly. It hadn't changed since he had been locked into the narrow cell late yesterday evening, but there wasn't much else to look at. The cell had no window, and even in the block of cells reserved for minor malefactors the guards were unsympathetic and not given to conversation.

He had, over the past several months, given some serious thought to the possibility that he might end up in a cell like this one. He and his fellow Sharks had not been foolish enough to think that the enemies of freedom would yield graciously or even peacefully. The scuola he had joined had made its members pledge on the honor of their houses that they would uphold the tenets of their oath to maintain the First Law at the sword's point in the face of all hazards, even death. Bold words from bold young men, willingly spoken by candlelight with your friends around you and a cup or two of wine in your belly, but cold comfort when those hazards were staring you in the face as they were him.

Gosto Caporazo hadn't drawn; everything boiled down to that. The young Whale had had his hand on the hilt of his sword while he blasphemed against the First Law, but there had been no steel between guard and scabbard. When Adaran, goaded beyond endurance, had finally lunged forward and put his fist to Gosto's jaw, the sword had remained in its sheath even as he fell like a tree to crack his head upon the cobblestones. That was all that had mattered to the Night Watch when they had arrived on the scene a moment later, and it was all that would matter to the court when it got around to him.

Braavos might seem a lawless place to outsiders, with its bravos challenging any sword-bearing man they pleased, but the seeming lawlessness was in fact highly regulated. To assail an unarmed man, or to set upon an armed man without giving him a chance to draw his sword, was at the very least attempted murder by Braavosi law. Mutual combat and its consequences were the responsibility of the combatants, but an assault that was not met with force was punishable by at least a term of imprisonment, and it was not uncommon for the justiciars of the Commune to hand down the death penalty for such crimes. The millstones of Braavosi justice could turn slowly, but not when the honor and profit of the Commune were at stake, and even at speed they ground exceedingly fine.

For his part Adaran was willing to accept whatever punishment was given him, but for the fact that it would not fall on him alone. For him to be convicted of a felony would bring disgrace on his family. He would be legally barred from inheriting during the period of his sentence, leaving his father without a male heir of his body; if he were exiled for life or executed, the loss would be permanent. His sister would almost certainly be forced to marry one of their father's cousins, or whoever they could drum up from their creditors; no family of good repute would marry their son to the sister of a convicted felon.

Adaran cursed himself, past caring how many times he had done so in the past hour alone. With one blow he had effectively destroyed his family's future.

The clank of the lock made him turn his head, and the sight of his father made him rise to his feet even as his heart sank anew. His father looked _awful_. He was wearing his best suit of clothes and he was as erect as ever, but there were lines on his face that Adaran had never seen before and a bag of loose skin under each eye that spoke of a long and sleepless night under great strain. Worst of all was the look in his father's eyes as he regarded him; simple anger Adaran could have endured, but anger mixed with disappointment he had no defense against. "You," his father said quietly, "are an idiot."

Adaran bowed his head. "Yes, sir," he said meekly.

"Fortunately, you are not, yet, a murderer," his father went on. "Young Caporazo has not yet awakened, but he has not yet died, either. The doctors have done all they can for him; whether he lives or dies is for the gods to decide, now." Adaran could feel the old man's gaze boring into his head. "I trust you understand the gravity of what you have done? The position you have placed your family in?"

Adaran jerked his head in a miniscule nod. "Yes, sir."

"Then I can spare myself that much breath at least," his father said. "Fortunately, your Shark friends are good for something. For every witness that you struck young Caporazo unprovoked, there are as many swearing that you were most grievously provoked, and that you offered no further violence beyond the initial blow. Consequently," his father's voice could have dried raw meat, "the justiciars have decided to consider this whole affair as a crime of passion and not simply a case of attempted murder. The law is able to make allowances, or so I am told, for madmen and idiots and other people who cannot control themselves." Adaran couldn't help a slight cringe.

"The court," his father went on, "is willing to offer you a deal. If you plea guilty to attempted manslaughter, then you will be banished from the city and the lagoon until young Capozaro's condition resolves itself. If he reawakens as the man he was, then your exile will last five years from the day he awakens. If he dies, or awakens with an impaired mind, then your exile from the lagoon shall last ten years, and your exile from the city shall be permanent unless you are officially summoned. You will have a citizen's freedom of the colonies and the lesser isles of the lagoon, but you will never return to Braavos itself except on the business of the Commune."

Adaran nodded. "I accept," he said, his voice small. "When shall I leave?"

"That has already been arranged," his father replied. "The Council of Thirty, thanks to the new majority of Sharks among its members, has decided that King Stannis should not be the only military ally of the Commune, and so a special embassy is being prepared to travel to the Kingdom of Myr. The Sealord's own sister shall be one of the envoys, and your sister has been chosen as one of her ladies-in-waiting, in recognition of our family's past services to the Commune. You shall travel with her, and upon arriving you shall offer your service to King Robert for the duration of your exile. If you wish to fight the enemies of freedom, then the least that the Commune can do is give you the opportunity."

Adaran nodded. "What shall I do if he refuses me?" he asked.

"You are to serve King Robert in whatever capacity he thinks you are fit for," his father said in a voice of stone. "You shall carry out any and all commands he gives you, save those that would require you to commit treason against the Titan. If he commands you to sweep shit from the streets, you shall do so to the best of your ability."

Adaran bowed shortly. There was really nothing to say, was there?

"You shall be transferred from this place to the barracks of the Sealord's Guard, and remain there under close arrest until the embassy sails," his father continued. "From this point on, you are considered a soldier of the Commune, subject to military law. If you have questions as to what that means, then you may ask the sergeant you are assigned to; I am sure that he will be happy to enlighten you." He paused, then said, "Look at me, boy."

Adaran raised his head to see his father still staring at him with that mixture of anger and disappointment. "I hope that King Robert is able to make a man of you," he said, his voice soft but still terrible. "It would appear that I have failed. Do not present yourself under my roof until you have restored the honor you have cost our family. Is that understood?"

Adaran nodded, his heart in ashes. "Yes, sir," he said in the smallest voice he had ever used.


	60. Chapter 60: Sowing the Wind

Lord Owen Merryweather was an affable man. Partly by personal predilection, but also by training; his father had taught him that a man without friends was a man vulnerable to any turn of fortune. Money, swords, and high birth were all useful things to have, but the right friends could get you all three of them, and more besides. Men, his father had also taught him, were like wolves in that they hunted best in a pack, and a friendly wolf was much more likely to keep his place in the pack than one that constantly felt the need to test his packmates.

So from a young age Owen had set out to establish himself as a good friend to all, and that friendliness had paid a handsome dividend. When Tywin Lannister had finally let his pride get the better of him and Aerys had searched for a new Hand, Owen's friends had immediately recommended him for his genial nature. Perfect, they had said, for winning back those lords who had been put off by the Old Lion's icy sternness. Aerys, understandably in search of a more congenial Hand than Tywin, had offered him the post, and for a time Owen Merryweather had been the second or third most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms.

He should have remembered that dragons make for dangerous friends.

When word of the Rebellion had reached him he had leapt, _leapt_, into action, sending out ravens by the dozen to rally his friends to the defense of King's Landing. But his friends had responded slowly, if at all, and after the Hedgerows Aerys had become impervious to reason. Owen still had no idea how it was _his fault_ that Hightower had been beaten or that Lord Tyrell had marched so slowly and taken that unaccountably long detour to Storm's End, but whatever the chain of logic he had used, Aerys had been implacable. Owen had escaped death only by volunteering to go into exile beyond the sea; a risky but, in the event, gods-inspired gambit. His exile had not simply preserved himself and his house from Aerys' wrath, it had left them in a uniquely favorable position to undertake the new role in which he had found himself.

Of course, it had required him to betray a friendship (a step Owen had only taken once or twice before, and then only in extremis), but even the blindest fool could see that the day of the Targaryens was past. Aerys was dead, Queen Rhaella was dead, Princess Elia and her children by Rhaegar were dead, even the Stark girl that Rhaegar had tried to make his paramour had died and her child with her. And while Rhaegar had offered to make restitution for his father's mistreatment of a friend, Owen had not been minded to place himself at the dragon's mercy again. Rhaegar might have been more stable than Aerys, but a dragon was a poor friend regardless of its age, as liable to burn you to death as warm you. The Tyrells, on the other hand, and Lord Mace particularly . . .

Owen had been a friend of old Lord Luthor from boyhood and an honorary uncle to Lord Mace, and the Rose had not failed him. One letter from Owen to Mace, and one conversation between Mace and Stannis, and House Merryweather had been raised up again from the pit they had been thrown down to. The taint of exile had been lifted, an estate found in the Crownlands to maintain the family's position, and Owen himself had been offered a handsome stipend and a post of honor as an officer of the Iron Throne. There were very few men in the history of the Seven Kingdoms who had been granted practically viceregal powers; as the Westerosi consul to Pentos, Owen not only had the power to rule the Westerosi enclave in the city in the name of King Stannis, but he was also effectively Stannis' ambassador to the Commune of Braavos. There was an embassy in Braavos proper, but after the Iron Throne they took their orders from Owen, and it was to Owen that they first sent their correspondence, except in cases of direst emergency.

Owen, for his part, was well content with the arrangement. He was perfectly happy to let his ambitious son administer their new fief and have to deal with uppity smallfolk and the occasional nosy neighbor; here in Pentos he could indulge in the delights of civilization to his heart's content, secure in the knowledge that doing so was, in fact, as much of a duty as a pleasure, for part of his remit was to maintain good relations with the Braavosi.

Admittedly, that could be a difficult duty at times; not that the Braavosi were churlish, for a race of merchants, but they had such strange ideas, sometimes. Fortunately, his other main duty, uncovering clandestine information, was much easier. Owen snorted to himself; Varys, that posturing eunuch, had made it sound so difficult, when all it boiled down to was what Own had been doing since the age of seventeen. You simply found people in potentially useful positions, made friends with them, and then offered to give them something in exchange for them giving you something. Mostly that something was coin, but even more powerful than coin was _favor_. You could give anyone a few coppers and he'd be grateful for as long as it took him to drink them away, but if a few words in the right ears got a man's son an apprenticeship, or his daughter a good marriage, then he was yours for life.

The Peace of Pentos had been his great triumph. Beleo, that usefully clever man, had managed to get enough information to thwart whatever it was the slavers had planned, and Stannis had been suitably grateful. Longtable, at last, had been restored, and Owen's son Orson was there now rebuilding the family's ties to the smallfolk while Orton, Owen's grandson and a likely lad, kept the Crownlands fief warm for them. Owen, meanwhile, obedient to the new saying that 'King Stannis expects every man to do his duty', had remained in Pentos as King Stannis' eyes, ears, and voice in Pentos.

For the most part, Owen admitted to himself as he swung into the saddle of his palfrey, it was an easy duty. The manse lacked a proper garden for parties and the banquet hall was not quite large enough for his preferences, but otherwise it was perfectly suitable and a gift from the Braavosi besides; the Titan made a point of rewarding good friendship, especially when it increased the profit of the Commune. And the conquest of Pentos had easily been the most profitable venture the Braavosi had undertaken in the past two hundred years.

Not that he would be able to properly enjoy that friendship today, he reflected as he walked his horse out through the gates, returning the salute of the porter with a wave of his riding crop as four of his household men took their places around him. He had hoped to make today a light working-day, mostly some paperwork and preparation for the Viceroy's Court tomorrow, but new orders had arrived two days ago, straight from the hand of Lord Arryn himself. Somewhat frivolous orders in Owen's opinion; apparently some of the septons and begging brothers in Gulltown had been forgetting their place enough to preach against the Arryns. Something to do with Septon Jonothor down in the Kingdom of Myr and an obsession with a few passages out of the _Seven-Pointed Star_, probably taken entirely out of context. The information had been quite vague, to be honest, and Owen had wondered if the stress of being Hand wasn't starting to get to the Old Falcon; he had been the Hand himself, and knew how rare it was to get a full night's sleep.

And surely it didn't _matter_ what a few troublesome septons and unwashed begging brothers thought, did it? If they didn't come to their senses of their own accord then the Most Devout would see to them. A few confinements in some of the more uncomfortable septries and maybe an excommunication or two and everything would settle down again. Owen had seen it happen before in Longtable.

Still, an order was an order, and as it happened, three of Owen's contacts in the docklands had reported that the 'True Faith', so-called, was being preached to the sailors and to the Westerosi who were either stopping over in Pentos on their way to Myr or were taking service with the Viceroy in return for yeoman's farms. So Owen and his men-at-arms rode down to the docks, stopping at a few shops along the way to cover the true nature of their excursion; Owen had needed new gloves anyway and it would be churlish to prevent his men-at-arms from ogling the merchandise of the armorers and goldsmiths. By and by, they found themselves at the docks, and as Owen sent one of his men-at-arms to investigate a clump of rough-looking fellows who had just gotten off a round ship flying Mooton colors and were probably either archers or city toughs hoping to take the Titan's dinar, he bent an ear to the middle-aged, unshaven man in a begging brother's robes who was standing on a crate and haranguing anyone who would listen.

He could hear why the man had never been made a septon; he spoke poorly and clumsily, if passionately. In Westeros he would have been hooted off his crate with maybe a few horse droppings flung at him, but the Braavosi kept too orderly a city to allow such behavior even in the docklands; from where Owen was sitting, he could see four pairs of Watchmen, each with their tabards, truncheons, and whistles. As for the Braavosi themselves, they were quite hesitant about employing even mild coercion against holy men. One of their laws, Owen understood, was that any faith was free to preach, worship, and congregate so long as they did not cause a breach of the peace or contravene Braavosi law. Owen didn't pretend to understand it, nor did he feel that he needed to; how the Braavosi kept the peace among a score of different religions wasn't his affair.

And while this fellow wasn't saying anything about the Arryns, or the Braavosi for that matter, he seemed to have a great deal to say about Andalos. The ancient homeland wasn't an uncommon theme in sermons, but the fool seemed to think it was in Myrish territory! Owen snorted to himself; anyone who knew their geography knew that Old Andalos lay in the northern part of Pentos (well, the central region of Greater Braavos, now, but who was counting?). As the man began to rant about how proof of blood would bring the Seven down from the heavens to bring about a world without winter Owen's man-at-arms returned from his investigation and Owen signaled for his party to ride back home.

Really rather a waste of his time, Owen reflected, but at least he could claim that he had been properly diligent when Lord Arryn asked for a report. He just hoped the old man wouldn't get too excited about the whole affair; the Faith had its place, as everything did, and while it wasn't proper for the Faith to interfere with matters of lordship it wasn't proper for lords to interfere with the Faith, either. That was the meat of the agreement Jaehaerys the Conciliator had come to with the Faith, and it was the agreement that had kept the peace between the Faith and the Iron Throne ever since.

He shrugged; if Lord Arryn decided to do something, he would hear about it when it happened. For now, he had to review the arrangements for the dinner he was holding for the Viceroy and his chief officers three days from now. They had been forced to postpone it twice already for lack of guests; apparently the change in government policy was having some sort of effect on the Viceroy's administration.

XXX

Damon Lannister knew that he had not deserved to be named master of coin. His appointment owed much more to the fact that his step-niece was the Queen and Lord Tywin had felt the need for an additional voice and pair of eyes at court. Kevan had been needed in the Westerlands as Tywin's steady right hand, Tygett and Gerion had gone east-over-sea with young Jaime, and Stafford hadn't the brains that the gods gave an ox, so Damon had been the only remaining choice. Fortunately, the job had been easy enough to learn and his subordinates were smart enough that he only rarely needed to lend a hand himself beyond approving their decisions.

However, there were things that simply couldn't be delegated. Small council meetings were one of them. Another was negotiating with the High Septon.

Damon glanced at his king and ran a finger under the collar of his doublet nervously. Overall, he reflected, he would much rather be sitting through any number of small council meetings. He didn't have the faintest idea _how_ Stannis was able to remain so blasted calm while he was waiting for an audience with the most powerful man in the Faith. Yet there he was, as calm as if he were at prayer instead of being made to cool his heels. Admittedly his composed face had a much grimmer cast to it than it had before the Tyroshi expedition which was reinforced by his unrelieved black wardrobe and simple gold circlet, but his hands were folded in his lap and his eyes half-closed as if in meditation. Of the rest of their party only the old septon he had sent east-over-sea seemed to share his calm, standing as he was in a relaxed stance and fingering his string of prayer beads with a serene look on his lined face. Grand Maester Pycelle, by contrast, was glancing between Stannis and the door to the High Septon's solar nervously.

As well he might; the High Septon had kept them waiting for at least ten minutes already. Damon didn't know why the man was making the King wait, especially since this visit had been previously arranged. The Faith wasn't immune to pettiness, but he would have thought that the High Septon would know better than to try it with the most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms. If Ser Cortnay Penrose were here instead of interviewing candidates to refill the ranks of the Stormguard, then the old battler would have been in a cold fury at the implied disrespect. At least Greyjoy wasn't here; he might act like a civilized man, but Damon was ready to wager that the upjumped pirate would have taken his axe to the door by now.

Finally, the door opened and a young septon ushered them into the High Septon's solar. Damon blinked; even by the standards of a Lannister of Casterly Rock, the room was sumptuously appointed. The chairs and tables were all finely carved, the seven-pointed star in the window was of brilliantly-colored stained glass, and the rug before the great fireplace could only be Myrish-made, and that before the Sack. After a moment he smiled to himself; at least when the topic of today's meeting was broached, the High Septon would not be able to claim that he was incapable of doing what the King wanted him to.

The High Septon, glittering in cassock and shoulder cape of watered silk and with a heavy crystal strung around his neck, rose from his chair behind a vast desk with stately grace and met Stannis in the middle of the room. "Be welcome in the house of the Faith, Your Grace," he said formally, extending his hand; Damon, Pycelle, and Stannis' septon all bent the knee as Stannis bowed to kiss the High Septon's ring. The formalities seen to, the High Septon and King Stannis sat on either side of the desk as Stannis' party arrayed themselves behind him; Damon at his right, Pycelle at his left, and the old septon on Pycelle's left. "Now," the High Septon said, folding his hands over his paunch, "what can the Faith do for the Iron Throne?"

"I find myself having to replace the royal fleet for the second time in three years," Stannis said, as calmly as if he was not, even indirectly, commenting on the worst embarrassment to befall Westerosi arms in at least a century. "As you might imagine, this is a somewhat expensive proposition; warships are not to be had cheaply, unless you want them to be worthless."

The High Septon nodded. "I imagine not," he said equably. "Will you be wanting a loan then?"

Stannis shook his head. "I will not be a debtor," he replied, his voice almost as grim as his face for a brief moment before turning to its previous, unhurried tone. "I want to levy a tax on the property of the Faith."

The High Septon's head went back; the young septon at his side stiffened visibly. "Your Grace," the High Septon said slowly, "the Faith has always been exempted from taxation, even before the Conquest. It is one of our most ancient privileges."

"And yet you travel on royal roads, are protected by royal soldiers, receive donatives from the royal treasury from time to time, and receive the benefits of royal law," Stannis observed, "to name only a few things. Leaving aside the benefit of your prayers, the scope of which cannot be assigned a monetary value, what do you do to earn these things of us? Septons do not fight in the kingdom's wars, nor do they educate the younger sons of the nobility as the maesters do, nor do they grow or raise or make anything that contributes to the royal treasury."

"All of which," the High Septon said calmly, "is covered by the terms of the agreement that Jaehaerys the Conciliator came to with the Faith, when the Faith Militant disbanded. In return for which, we pray, as you said, and guide the Faithful in carrying out the commandments and fulfilling the sacraments. We preach obedience to the Iron Throne and keep the King and his family in the prayers of the Faithful. It is true that we do not teach the sons of the nobility, but our septas do teach their daughters. Even houses that do not keep the Seven find us useful in that regard; not four months ago Lord Stark requested that a septa be sent to Winterfell to minister to his wife's household."

The High Septon spread his hands. "And while I concede that the maesters are a blessing upon the Kingdoms, Your Grace, they have never been numerous enough beyond the walls of Oldtown to suit the needs of all our people. Those houses that are too small or too poor to attract a maester must rely on a septon to teach and advise them, as do many of the higher men of the smallfolk, merchants and guild masters and the like."

The High Septon stood and began to pace back and forth behind his desk. "To continue with the smallfolk, many of them have no access to the healing arts save through a septon; it is a rare lord indeed that will send his maester to treat one of his laborers. Our arts rarely equal a maesters, but better a septon with a steady hand who knows what he is doing than a travelling barber-surgeon whose hands shake with drink or a woods-witch who talks to spirits. Our septries and motherhouses each keep a small ward where a man may be treated for injury or illness, besides working to sustain themselves; the best, such as Quiet Isle, require nothing save new initiates and what few resources they cannot grow or make themselves. Those that cannot achieve so high a level of self-sufficiency are still industrious enough that they can trade with the laity for what they need. None of these things, Your Grace, can be achieved cheaply unless it is to be done poorly, which is to say worthlessly. As for our not fighting in the kingdom's wars . . ."

The High Septon sat back in his chair, seeming to deflate a little. "I will not insult Your Grace's intelligence by reminding you of the pact that was made between my predecessor of saintly memory and Jaehaerys the Conciliator. It has not been for lack of courage, or love of country, or thirst for justice, that we have not taken up the sword in the years since, but merely the faith we have placed in the Iron Throne, that when the ravens fly and the storm of war threatens the King's sword will be the first that is drawn to defend us in place of the swords we surrendered."

Stannis nodded. "All true," he allowed, "and we mean to carry on that tradition, with this new fleet. For the first time since the Andals came to Westeros, Your Holiness, the Faith is worshipped on both sides of the Narrow Sea. And even if it is my brother who defends the Faith in those lands, I would not let him stand alone."

The High Septon raised an eyebrow. "Has the schism been resolved then?" he asked. "I had not heard that Jonothor had crossed the Narrow Sea with the intention of repenting his errors."

Stannis shook his head. "Not resolved, but defined at least," he admitted, raising his right hand and gesturing at his septon. "Septon Martyn will explain."

"The only difference between the magisterium of the Faith and Jonothor's new doctrine, Your Holiness," Septon Martyn said, "is this; that salvation may be achieved through good works alone. If a man, or woman for that matter, lives a virtuous life and acts righteously, then the Seven will admit them to the Heavens regardless of their faith in this life. In all other respects," the septon flicked his fingers dismissively, "there is no substantive difference between Jonothor's teachings and those of the Faith. He does not question the commandments or deny the sacraments, nor does he deny the authority of the Most Devout save on the question of salvation through works alone. The Myrish Faith may be erring brothers, Your Holiness, but they are still brothers in Faith."

The High Septon narrowed his eyes. "And so potentially recoverable to the true Faith, if they repent of this error," he said shrewdly.

Stannis nodded; Damon noticed a slight tightening at the corner of his eyes. "Indeed, Your Holiness. But in order to make that likely, we will need to not only assist them in their wars, but be seen to do so, and prominently. At this moment, the only example that the Myrish have of the Faith is Septon Jonothor and those septons he has converted to his doctrine; the few that have remained loyal to Your Holiness are so few that they are easily drowned out. If we of the Seven Kingdoms were to fight at their side, then they would be much more likely to heed those septons who have remained loyal, and also those that Your Holiness would dispatch to minister to them."

The High Septon nodded. "In aid of which, Your Grace needs your fleet," he said. "What manner of tax did you have in mind?"

Thirty minutes later the young septon was bowing them out of the room. As the royal party walked down the hallway towards the doors Damon couldn't help but look at Pycelle and shake his head wearily. "I truly hoped that the High Septon would be more amenable," he said, unable to keep a tone of despair out of his voice.

Pycelle snorted softly. "Actually, it went better than I had expected," the old maester replied, fingering his beard. "His High Holiness didn't refuse us outright, and towards the end he seemed to be coming around to the idea. I foresee no insurmountable difficulties arising in this affair."

Damon frowned, running through the last part of the conversation in his head. His Holiness _had_ been almost cordial towards the end, and Stannis seemed to have relaxed as much as he did these days. He shook his read resignedly. He _knew _he wasn't meant for this sort of thing.

XXX

Daario Naharis strode into the Dragon's Wing, the sturdily-built tavern in Aesica that the Stormcrows patronized most often when they weren't in camp, and sat heavily on one of the stools at the bar. "Brandy," he demanded, and when the barkeep obliged, he downed the glass at a single gulp, grimacing as the liquor burned down his throat before holding the glass up again. "Another of the same," he said.

"Hard day with the Council?" asked Sallaquo Haterion, who had been a sergeant at Tara and was now the de facto Captain of the Stormcrows, since Daario's days had been taken up with commanding the army as a whole. Sallaquo, a genial man who had been the fourth son of a Volantene baker before going for a sellsword, looked over his former captain and blinked. "Hang on, where's your baton?" Upon being named captain-general, Daario had been presented with a laurel-wood baton as a sign of his rank; in his quarters he had kept it in one of his saddlebags, but he had been legally required to have it either on his person or within arm's reach when he was in public.

Daario threw back the second glass of brandy and raised it to signal for another. "In the first place, it was never my baton, it was the city's baton; they just loaned it to me," he said, allowing bitterness to color his voice. "In the second place, the city has no place in its service for a captain-general who bungles away a fifth of its territory. So they took it back."

Sallaquo's jaw dropped. "They gave you the sack?" he asked, plainly stupefied. "They know you're the reason they still have the other four-fifths of their territory, don't they? That you were able to keep enough of the army together to bluff _Robert Baratheon_ out of crossing Turtle River?"

Daario nodded. "They do," he said. "I was led to understand that this was why I was being dismissed in disgrace instead of arrested for treasonous incompetence. Well," he amended, as the barkeep refilled his glass, "that, and the Council's prerogative of mercy."

"The pricks," Sallaquo said loyally, sipping from his tankard. "You'll be coming back to the Stormcrows, then? I don't mind letting you have the captaincy again."

Daario shook his head. "I am not permitted," he said, even more bitterly than before, "to take any force contracted with the city with me when I go into exile. Not even you, my friend."

Sallaquo eyed his captain for a moment, and then turned to the barkeep and stuck a hand in his purse. "Private room," he said, drawing out a silver ducat and flipping it to the barkeep with his thumb. "And a bottle of that brandy the captain's having."

The barkeep snatched the coin out of the air, glanced at it, and tucked it into his purse in a motion so smooth that Daario could hardly follow it. "Down the hall, first door on the left," he said, taking a bottle down from the shelf behind him and sliding it down the counter to Sallaquo's waiting hand. "Don't make too big a mess."

"Captain here just needs to drown his sorrows a little," Sallaquo said reassuringly. "Don't you, Captain?" he asked Daario with a wink so brief it could almost be mistaken for a nervous tic.

Daario was not yet so drunk that he couldn't take a hint. "That I do," he said, standing from his stool and staggering only a little as three glasses of brandy on an empty stomach went to his head for a brief moment. He followed Sallaquo down the hall into the private room, more of a hole in the wall just big enough for five chairs and a table, on which Sallaquo plunked down Daario's glass and his tankard before knocking the top off the bottle with his dirk.

"So," he said, pouring Daario a generous measure and adding a slug to his ale which he stirred in with his dirk blade, "who's got the command now?"

"Draqeo Varoros, the councilor's son, has the captain-generalship," Daario said, taking a sip. "And Mero's been given command of the sellsword companies, in recognition of his victory over the rebel slaves."

Sallaquo snorted. "Well, the hells be damned if we take orders from that lout," he said. "Sort of man that gives sellswords a bad name, that one." He sipped at his reinforced ale, smacking his lips a little at the sting of the brandy. "You know," he continued slowly, "if we play our cards right, we might be able to get out of this whole mess."

Daario snorted bitterly. "How?" he asked. "We'd have to go to bloody Meereen at least, in order to get away from the Andals for more than a few months. And who's this _we_ anyhow? I have five days to settle my affairs before departing for foreign lands, and the council won't let me take you with me."

"Balls to the council," Sallaquo said bluntly. "You think the company will let you leave if it means bloody Mero taking command? You held us together after Tara, and then you got us out of Solva in one piece. We're yours, captain, wherever you lead us."

Daario blinked; he had _not_ expected this. "But you have a contract," he said finally. "You don't _run out _on a contract!"

"You do when your employer is a damned fool who's bound on self-destruction," Sallaquo said. "Look, the point of the contract is that it binds both the employer and the company to behave in a reasonable fashion, right? Not just in pay, but also in discipline and what-not." Daario nodded; sellsword contracts primarily focused on pay, division of loot, and discipline, but they also contained clauses regarding the resolution of disputes between employer and company which usually boiled down to 'talk it out like rational men and if that doesn't work then find a judge and submit to arbitration'. There was a reason that sellsword companies almost always had at least one lawyer attached to the captain's household.

"Part of that reasonable behavior is appointing the best man available to command and giving him as much leeway as possible within the bounds of policy," Sallaquo continued. "You're the only captain on the whole damned continent who's made Robert Baratheon work for his victories; if he hadn't gone for Alalia like he did, you'd have run him and that damned Legion of his into the ground. I've never heard of this Varoros boy, but if he's a councilor's son, then odds are he hasn't been near a military camp in his life, much less a battlefield. Which means he'll be relying on Mero for advice; fair enough, that's in the rules." Daario nodded; such an arrangement hadn't been uncommon in the days before the Sunset Company landed and changed all the rules. "But Mero doesn't have the brains that the gods gave a sheep, and if tries to go bull-at-a-gate like he usually does then the Iron Legion will turn him into sausage and the army with him." Sallaquo shrugged. "We're sellswords; fighting is part of the job but military suicide isn't. That's what the escape clause is for. You know, the one that reads _the company is not obligated to accept orders that, in the captain's considered opinion, are likely to lead to excessive casualties for minimal return._"

Daario frowned. "The escape clause only applies in the field, though," he said. "If the company's in camp, then it isn't operative."

Sallaquo snorted. "You think the lads will care? They know they're not obligated to accept an unfit commander who's acting with insufficient advice. They also know that you're the person who's kept the company alive over the past two years. If you're gone, then so are they. Just because you're being paid well doesn't mean you leave your good sense at the door."

Daario stared down into his glass as Sallaquo sipped at his ale for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "All right then," he said, his voice a trifle thicker than usual. "Get the lads alerted for a hard march. And warn them; _keep it quiet._ If the Tyroshi get wind of what we have planned, then we're dead men. We keep it quiet, and then we run for the Lyseni border like all the devils in hell are after us."

Sallaquo drained his tankard. "I'll get them started tonight," he said, rising from the table. "Keep the head, captain; we're with you on this."

XXX

"A fine reward is offered for the return of a slave woman, stolen or absconded, from the house of Marodos Sorrin," the newsreader declaimed. "Any citizen wishing to investigate is directed to seek further details at that house."

Leryna Nahin rolled her eyes as she continued wrung out the shirt she was washing. That made four slaves absconded from the magisters within as many days, and that was only the ones whose masters had deemed worth paying coin to have their flight announced by the newsreader. You'd think that they hadn't won the war. And where were the slaves planning to flee _to_? The isle of Lys was an _island, _after all, and it wasn't as if any ship captain would take on a slave without the written permission of their master; they knew the penalties for abetting the flight of an escaped slave.

The newsreader, a stoutly built man with a double chin barely hidden by his wispy beard and a simple round haircut, handed off the tablet he had been reading from to one of his assistants and accepted another tablet from his other assistant. "In light of the recent delivery of two further centuries of Unsullied, and the subsequent increase to the strength of the city's arms," he declared in the loud, carrying voice of the professional orator, "the Conclave of Magisters has voted to table the proposed motion for the creation of a Select Militia for service in foreign lands. Any militia company which has already declared itself a Select company is hereby directed to cease the use of that title forthwith. All militia companies remain subject to service in the lands of the city, but shall not be called upon for service beyond the city's borders."

Leryna blew her cheeks out in relief as she draped the shirt over the drying frame and reached into the tub for another one. Her son would be disappointed, but at least he wouldn't be sent to die in Myr for a cause that didn't concern him. The Nahin family didn't even own a share in a slave, much less own one outright! What was it to them whether slavery continued to exist or not? And who knew; maybe if there was an end to slavery, maybe Leryna would get fewer dirty looks from the better-off. Being a laundress was a perfectly respectable occupation, but in rich houses it was work done by slaves, and associations stuck no matter what you did to get free of them. Even if, like the Nahin's, you had as much Valyrian blood as any magister. She spat; _not _into the tub, but off to one side with a conspicuous turn of her head. There was no point fouling clean water.

"Furthermore," the newsreader continued, "in light of the recent increase in the price of further Unsullied, and the expense of hiring further Free Companies, the Conclave of Magisters has voted to levy two new taxes. The first, a duty on the sale of slaves, shall be assessed at one shilling per lady in value of each slave sold at public auction." Leryna ran the numbers in her head as she wrung out the shirt and winced; taxing any kind of sale at a twelfth of its sale price was steep. At least this tax would only affect those wealthy enough to buy and keep slaves, which was hardly anyone she knew. The neighborhood where she and her family lived were primarily either small shopkeepers or lower guild craftsmen; slaves were for families rich enough that the wife didn't need to work as a laundress by the fountain of the neighborhood square while her husband and her sons worked in the family's small cutlery shop.

"The second tax," the newsreader continued, "shall be a duty on the brothels of the city of one shilling per lady in profit." Leryna snickered to herself as she draped the shirt onto the drying rack; she could just hear the whores complaining about having to support the treasury with their cunts. "Both of these taxes shall be assessed quarterly; violators shall be subject to a fine of not less than the amount of tax unpaid. The Conclave pledges that all the funds raised from these duties shall be spent on the defense of the city and nothing else. Citizens seeking further information are directed to address their inquiries to the Committee for Revenue."

Leryna shrugged to herself as she fished the last shirt of the day out of the tub. She had no idea _how_ you 'addressed an inquiry to the Committee for Revenue' and was perfectly happy not knowing. As far as she was concerned, politics was for those rich enough to care about such things, with the sole exception of this militia business that her eldest son had been roped into. One male per household serving the city in arms in case of emergencies was all well enough, especially since there was some money in it, but she would be _damned_ if she let her son get himself killed just so some foreign magisters could have their manses and their slaves back.

Of course, fighting off an invasion was another matter entirely; she had heard the stories about the Sack of Myr and the Rebellion of Alalia. Just yesterday one of her neighbors had warned her child to be good or the Andals would come and get her.

The newsreader changed tablets again. "In celebration of the city's victory," he declared, "and under the auspices of Murielle the Bright Lady, a public festival is to be held two days hence, in the square of the Temple of Trade, sponsored by the Orlyrion Bank. Freedmen and slaves are not eligible. Prostitutes from the Perfumed Garden shall be on offer at half their regular rate within the designated pavilion. Free wine will be provided by Drennoris and Sorrassar Chandlery, and cakes by the Guild of Millers. The Guild of Millers uses only the finest grains; true Lyseni bread for true Lyseni." Leryna snorted to herself at the dull tone that crept into the newsreader's voice as he read out the boast. "Any man who disrupts the peace of the Lady must leave when ordered by the civic officers or be subject to arrest." The newsreader changed tablets again as Leryna wrung out the shirt and draped it on the drying rack. "A reminder to all citizens," he pronounced, "by order of the Conclave, the curfew for slaves remains in effect. Any slave found on public land, or outside their master's property, in the hours of darkness without the written permission of their master will be subject to arrest and confinement until redeemed by their master. Citizens seeking further information are directed to address their inquiries to the Committee for the Night Watch."

The newsreader changed tablets again as Leryna fished the last shirt out of the tub and began to wring it out, and then raised his arm to gesture grandly. "News from Volantis!" he shouted. "Seeking to maintain the rights of the First Daughter of Valyria, and ensure the freedom of the navigation of the River Rhoyne, the Triarchs of Volantis have unanimously declared war against the city of Qohor! A Grand Army," Leryna could hear the capital letters in the newsreader's intonation, "under the command of Garrello Maegyr has gone forth from the city, and is marching north along the Rhoyne. So great is this army that a decisive victory is expected shortly . . ."

XXX

All his life, Ser Arthur Dayne had heard stories about the wealth and power of the cities of the East. Even as a child, however, he had only believed half of them and as he grew to manhood he believed even fewer. The wealth of Essos he readily conceded; he knew for a fact that the tax revenue of Pentos city alone was roughly equivalent to that of Gulltown, the second-richest port on the eastern coast of Westeros. Their might, however, he had never seriously credited. It was well known that the great men of Essos were not knights or even common warriors, but merchants. And their habit of giving themselves and their creations pretentious names tended to undermine their believability.

All that said, he was willing to admit that the Grand Army of Volantis bade fair to deserve its name.

Twenty thousand tiger cloaks. Five thousand freeborn militia. Three thousand Unsullied. The Golden Company, ten thousand strong. The four thousand men of the Dragon Company. A thousand lesser sellswords. A flotilla of river galleys one hundred strong escorting a transport fleet of almost three hundred sail. There were larger armies in the world, but few that could match the Grand Army's uniformity of equipment across contingents and level of supply. There was, evidently, a great stockpile of supplies awaiting them at Selhorys, and the plan was for the transport fleet to unload the supplies they currently carried at that city and then reload with the stockpiled supplies to provision the army's move northward to Chroyane, where a second base of supply would be established to support the advance to Dagger Lake.

If nothing else, that gave him confidence. Forty-three thousand men was a respectable force by anyone's standards, but keeping so many men and their animals, especially the twelve elephants of the Golden Company, fed and watered and armed and supplied would tax even the wealthiest kingdom, especially if they were being sent some one hundred and fifty miles beyond their homeland's borders. The elephants alone would require some three tons of fodder _every day. _Even for Volantis the Great, perhaps the wealthiest of the Free Cities bar only Braavos, such a feat was only made possible by the fact that the lower Rhoyne boasted some of the most fertile farmland in Essos and the Rhoyne itself allowed for waterborne transport of that bounty. Boats were vastly more efficient than wheeled vehicles, even travelling against the current.

Of course, it would be better if there were less tension in the army. The men of the Golden Company and those of the Dragon Company tended to be stiff with each other, as if they were so many strange cats, but the true source of disquiet was the tiger cloaks. Not that they were undisciplined, far from it; they seemed to make a point of trying to be more disciplined than any other contingent of the army. That was part of the problem. The tiger cloaks, from what Donys had heard, seemed to be under the impression that their masters did not entirely trust them, and were more than a little bewildered and resentful at the implied lack of faith. Fortunately, Garello Maegyr, a nephew of the vastly influential patriarch of that clan, was a genial fellow with a gift for smoothing ruffled feathers. Arthur knew of at least two occasions already where Garello had ridden through the tiger cloaks to personally hear any complaints they might have and promise redress.

And the other commanders seemed a likely lot. Ser Myles Toyne of the Golden Company had even managed to be positively good-natured the few times he and Arthur had had to converse, although some of his officers only barely concealed their distaste for the trueborn heir to the Iron Throne. The only potential fly in the ointment that Arthur could see was the threescore-strong bodyguard of young Volantene noblemen who attended on Garello; they were splendidly armed and mounted, and their armor was some of the finest that Arthur had ever seen, but the arrogance that seemed to be inborn into the pack of them was troubling.

Especially since they seemed to think that because they wore full armor and rode on horseback they were equal to knights; a few who were evidently less confident had engaged knights of the Golden Company to tutor them. Arthur shook his head wearily; putting a man in armor and sticking him on a horse didn't make him a knight any more than cutting a man's balls off made him an Unsullied. And the level of decoration on their armor bordered on the ridiculous. He glanced aside at where Viserys was riding between him and Ser Barristan on his pony. He had to admit that Donys and Ser Garin Uller had had the right idea; the king's wardrobe, a sober black with the three-headed dragon embroidered on his chest in red, made a striking and really quite pleasing contrast to the Volantene popinjays that was helped by his demeanor. Viserys was a good boy, but almost unnaturally serious. Arthur supposed that growing up in exile had its effects.

For a moment Arthur wished that he had Donys at hand to explain the causes of this war to him again. He had done so at least twice, citing treaties that were old before the Conquest, but Arthur still found it hard to follow; there some things you had to be born into to properly understand, he supposed, like the endlessly complicated web of relationships, feuds, rivalries, friendships, and allegiances along the Dornish Marches. Donys, however, was back in Volantis with Princess Visenya and Ser Tomas Shett, the only Kingsguard not with the Company. Ser Tomas was a competent knight with a genius for horsemanship, but otherwise his outstanding quality was his almost dog-like loyalty. It was that unreasoning fidelity that had earned him the white cloak more than his other qualities. Ser Tomas had proved his courage, zeal, and diligence at Tara, the escape from Myr, and the raid against Mantarys, but he himself had admitted to Arthur that he did not have the brains, the birth, or the natural gift to command men at war. Place him at the head of a conroi of knights and tell him to charge the enemy, or give him an assault column and a ladder and tell him to storm a castle and he would do either well, but more than that was beyond him.

So Ser Tomas had been left in Volantis to serve as the princess's watch-dog, with Donys to do the thinking for him and a score of men-at-arms of certain loyalty to back him up and leave some protection for the people the company had left behind when they marched out of the city. Of which there were now quite a collection; some of the men-at-arms and even a few of the knights had taken up with Essosi women with inevitable results. A few had even married their paramours. Arthur was unsure how to take it. On the one hand, it boded ill that the company should put down such permanent roots in the East when their king's throne remained unclaimed, but conversely it was unfair to expect celibacy of men who had not sworn the vows of the Kingsguard. And at least four in five of the Dragon Company were Essosi, these days. In the end, Arthur decided to tolerate it, commanding only that any children born to Westerosi men of the company receive instruction in the Faith and that no man quit the company's service without leave. Viserys would need as many of them as he could get to reclaim his throne.

Especially, he reflected, since this would be the first true test of the Dragon Company. The war against Mantarys had been an important victory, but Mantarys was a minor power even by Westerosi standards, much less those of Essos. If the company could secure a victory against a city as powerful as Qohor, then it would bode well for the future.


	61. Chapter 61: New Beginnings

Jaime Lannister was, at heart, a very simple man; all he wanted was to be the best knight in the world. And the metrics by which knighthood was measured were, thankfully, simple. Prowess, courage, loyalty to your lord, devotion to your lady, adherence to the tenets of the Faith, magnanimity and generosity to the weak, and at least a modicum of good manners were all that was necessary to make a knight. He had never hoped to be anything else and Ned Stark, for one, had known it. Which made this betrayal all the worse.

Jaime glowered at the desk with its neat stack of papers. _His_ desk, now, with _his _papers on it, all of them needing his attention and his signature. He'd rather go sword-to-sword against Ser Arthur Dayne again, without Stark's help.

It had been Robert's opinion that Alalia needed a Lord Lieutenant who was more of a fighter than an administrator, given its placement on the new border and the temporary nature of the current peace. Stark, upon hearing this, had recommended Jaime for the post in the next breath. Jaime had proved his ability to lead in the recent war, he had said, especially with the defense of Irons' Ford, and it was time to give him an opportunity to broaden his horizons. And if he was far more comfortable with a sword in his hand than a pen and cared more for the timing of a cavalry charge than the yield of an agricultural district, well that was what clerks and the royal inspectors were for.

The damnable thing was that Stark probably thought he had been doing Jaime a _favor_. He had acknowledged that he owed Jaime a debt for saving his life when the two of them crossed swords with Ser Arthur Dayne at Tara; securing someone a post of honor was one way to repay such a debt.

To be entirely fair, he wasn't chained to the bloody desk all day every day. There were plenty of matters outside the walls of the former Prefect's manse, now officially called the House of Justice, that required his personal attention. Some of them even called him out of Alalia all together; inspecting the defenses of the bridge of Dubris and Irons' Ford to name only one. And it helped the people to see that their new lords were an attentive and diligent bunch, especially with Alalia crowded with refugees who had gravitated to the town looking for work, shelter, and food. Taking a conroi of his knights down through the seething streets and the minor chaos of new construction where the town had burned, both to patrol the streets and to give largesse where it seemed needed, was an easy and highly visible way of telling the Kingdom's newest subjects that their overlords cared about them in a way that the slavers had never done.

But there was only so much that Jaime could do to make those blessed escapes from his desk last. And the longer he made them last, the more motherless papers piled up on the never-to-be-sufficiently-damned desk.

With a stifled groan he threw himself into the chair and started looking through the papers, scrawling his signature on the necessary lines. Damn it, this was the sort of thing he had been hoping to escape with his exile. It wasn't bloody fair.

XXX

A nudge on the couter from Ser Barristan brought Arthur's gaze up from his plate to see a small clump of knights and squires standing a respectful distance from where the commanders of the Dragon Company were dining outside the command tent. Ordinarily this wouldn't be particularly special, as the command tent was placed squarely in the center of the company's encampment and it wasn't uncommon for men passing by to stop and salute King Viserys, who for his part always returned those salutes with a graveness Arthur wouldn't have thought to see in a boy just shy of his eleventh name-day. What made this case unusual was that these were all men of the Golden Company.

Two of the knights stepped forward from the group and bowed to Viserys, who nodded deeply in reply. One of the knights was a young man of twenty or so, a strongly-built fellow with dirty-blonde hair cut short and a sharply-featured face that even at rest had a judgmental cast. The other was an older man, perhaps forty or forty-five, whose mostly grey hair and short beard lent credence to the number of gold rings on his arms and who sported a spider-in-spiderweb tattoo on the side of his neck. "Your Grace," the older knight said in a voice so suave that it immediately made Arthur wary, "our apologies for interrupting your dinner, but we have a question for Ser Arthur Dayne, if he is present."

"He is," Viserys said, gesturing at Arthur, who handed off his plate to one of the household's valets and stood. "What manner of question do you have?"

The older knight inclined his head to Arthur. "Ser Clarence Webber, ser, at your service," he said. "My friends and I," a graceful gesture indicated both the knight standing next to him and the clump of knights and squires who had kept their distance, "have heard a story of the Battle of Tara that we find difficult to believe. Is it true that you went sword to sword with two knights at the same time and defeated them both?"

Arthur's left wrist ached dully at the thought of Tara. "It is," he replied shortly.

The younger knight shook his head. "Impossible," he said flatly. "It cannot be done."

Ser Clarence kicked him in the ankle with a clink of sabaton on greave. "I apologize for my comrade's bluntness, Ser Arthur," he said smoothly. "He is not given to tact."

"Evidently," said Ser Barristan from where he was sitting at Arthur's left, within arm's reach of the king. "May I ask your name and style, ser?"

"Ser Edwyn Saffron," the younger knight said. "And I repeat that it is impossible for a knight to face two knights of comparable skill alone and triumph. It is beyond the limits of human skill."

"And you would know this from personal experience, ser?" Arthur said, with just a slight stress on the words _personal experience_. He had decided that he did not care for the young knight's assumptions.

Ser Edwyn shrugged. "Since hearing of your supposed feat at Tara I have attempted to replicate it three hundred and twenty-seven times," he said as matter-of-factly as if he were commenting on the weather, "with a variety of different knights, using a variety of different weapons. Thus far, my results are conclusive; the knight fighting alone may kill one of their opponents, but invariably the other one kills them. The best that can be managed against the second opponent is to double him, and this even I can do only one time in three." 'Doubling' was when two sparring knights struck each other at the same time; a mutual kill, in battlefield terms. "I must conclude," Ser Edwyn continued, "that either reports of your feat have been greatly exaggerated, or it was accomplished against very poor knights." He shrugged again, apparently uncaring that he had just offered what in some quarters would be considered a deadly insult.

Arthur flexed the fingers of his right hand. "Ser Jaime Lannister is one of the best knights of his generation," he said coolly, suppressing a flash of hatred at the memory of the young lion. "As for Eddard Stark, he is no knight, but he has been trained as one; if he were not a good swordsman, and did not have it in him to be a great one, he would not have survived our encounter."

Ser Clarence bowed again. "What you must understand, Ser Arthur," he said in a conciliatory tone, "is that Ser Edwyn is perhaps the best swordsman in our company. If he says a feat of arms is impossible, then his ruling is broadly accepted as accurate."

Arthur shrugged. "Well, if he is unwilling to accept another knight's word," he said, "then perhaps he would be willing to be defend his conclusions against me?" He bowed shortly to Ser Edwyn. "In the company of any knight he cares to name, of course, excepting Ser Barristan, whose duties prevent him from taking up such a challenge."

Ser Edwyn's eyes lit up. "I accept," he said eagerly. "Tomorrow at the midday halt, perhaps?"

Ser Arthur shrugged again. "I am already armed and ready," he pointed out, "and I am perfectly willing to defend my good name here and now as anywhere and anytime." He turned and bowed to Viserys. "With His Grace's approval, of course."

Viserys nodded. "I would not let my first sword's name be blackened for one day longer than it must be," he said. "Ser Barristan shall be the marshal."

As Barristan nodded and stood to his feet, Arthur deepened his bow for a heartbeat before straightening and turning back to Ser Edwyn. "At your pleasure, then, ser," he said.

Ser Clarence nodded. "I will be the second man," he said. At Ser Edywn's frown he shook his head. "I broached the subject," he went on, "it behooves me to help you defend your conclusions."

Ser Edwyn pursed his lips and scowled, then shrugged. "Well, at least you have some skill with a blade," he allowed, ungraciously in Arthur's opinion but the older knight seemed unruffled. He turned and snapped his fingers. "Joro," he called, "my helmet and gauntlets." A sullen-looking young man in a squire's three-quarter armor and plain leather belt dashed out of the pack with a pair of gauntlets tucked into a sallet, while another squire brought Ser Clarence his own gauntlets in a great helm. Arthur's own squire, an eager lad named Beleqor, brought Arthur his own barbute and gauntlets, tucked under his arm with Dawn cradled across his palms like a relic.

"Hold a moment," said one of the Golden Company knights, pointing at Dawn. "If you're as good a knight as you say you are, what have you got the magic sword for? Use a different one, if you've got the balls for it." He drew his longsword half out of its sheath with his left hand under the quillons. "Use mine, if you like."

Arthur paused in donning his gauntlets to cast a disdainful look at the knight who spoke up. "Is this the courtesy they teach knights in the Golden Company?" he drawled. "I must say, I'm not impressed."

Ser Edwyn also glared at the knight who had proffered his sword. "I will not have it said that I made a man defend himself at a disadvantage," he said coldly. "Let him use the sword. If he wins, well and so. If he loses, all the better."

The knight, realizing that his comrades around him were glowering at the conduct that had called their reputations into question, rammed his sword back into its sheath and folded his hands over the buckle of his belt as Ser Edwyn and Ser Clarence drew their swords. Ser Edwyn's blade was a long, slim, and strongly tapering weapon with a point like an awl and a forward-curving guard. Ser Clarence preferred a broader blade with less of a taper, a more rounded point, and a plain cross-guard. As they settled into their guards and the onlookers began to form a ring, Arthur settled his barbute on his head and drew Dawn from its sheath.

As the forty-two inches of narrow, diamond cross-sectioned steel as pale as alabaster flew clear, Arthur did what he always did before a fight and emptied himself. He let go of his fatigue from the day, tucked away his hatred for Jaime Lannister and Eddard Stark and Robert Baratheon, set aside all the myriad likes and dislikes and beliefs and petty quirks that made him a regular man, and replaced them with the single-minded focus and clarity of purpose that every great swordsman had. For some men this took time and careful preparation; many never fully achieved it. It was Arthur's gift that he could enter this state almost instantly and more deeply than any man he knew. In this state he had once cut a dragonfly on the wing out of the air with a single snapping blow of Dawn; a feat still unequaled in the Kingsguard.

The mental emptiness seeming almost to slow time to a crawl, he turned and stepped into the circle, Dawn cocked up and back over his right shoulder in the guard of the lady. Ser Barristan, who had equipped himself with a spear from a nearby infantryman, took position in the center of the circle, lowered the head of the spear to the ground, and glanced to either side. "On guard," he said, his words dulled and seemingly elongated. Ser Clarence took up the conservative short guard, with his right foot forward and the pommel of his sword resting near his groin with the blade canted upward. On his left, Ser Edwyn settled into the full iron gate, left foot forward and sword held low across his thighs and pointed downwards to the right. "Ready," said Ser Barristan, raising the spear head to waist height, "and lay on," he snapped, flicking the spear up and out of the way as he quickstepped back.

Ser Clarence crept forward on Arthur's left, his steps slow but steady as he kept himself in line. Ser Edwyn's advance was quicker and more self-confident, his feet skimming over the ground as he glided forward in a series of passing steps. _Both of them trained, but not together_ Arthur thought to himself as he began to shift to his right. _And Ser Clarence has never faced a greatsword._ Few men carried them due to the level of training it took to use one well. And keeping Dawn back in the guard of the lady kept it's exact length, and hence Arthur's reach, concealed for a few critical moments. Ser Edwyn slowed his advance, backstepped a pace, and started to match Arthur's move towards his right. _He knows enough not to overcommit himself without a partner_ Arthur thought, his feet barely clearing the ground as he added some forward motion to his rightward drift. Ser Clarence pivoted and began to come up on Ser Edwyn's left. _Smart_ Arthur noted, almost absently, as his feet carried him forward, _but not quite fast enough_ and as his toes crossed an invisible line in the dirt, he pounced.

Dawn came out from behind his neck in a descending diagonal forehand that would have felled an elephant as he pushed off with his right foot into a passing step. Ser Edwyn's sword, somehow moving even as Arthur began his cut, managed to catch Dawn's edge a full foot away from his face and came whipping back in a counter-cut at Arthur's helmet, but Arthur was already moving. Dawn's ricasso and guard pushed Ser Edwyn's blade up and over Arthur's head and his left foot, encased in it's steel sabaton, came up and _forward _in a stamping thrust-kick that took the younger knight in the top part of the plackart and sent him sprawling. Even as Ser Edwyn fell Arthur was pivoting on his right heel and bringing Dawn down in a semi-circular parry that caught Ser Clarence's thrust and threw it aside. A pair of quick steps brought Arthur to close quarters before Ser Clarence could throw another blow, and when the older knight's raised left forearm blocked the pommel-thrust that Arthur launched at his face Arthur hooked his pommel over the other knight's arm, forced it down, and then stamped on Ser Clarence's right foot as he shifted his grip on Dawn's hilt and drove both gauntleted fists into the front of his opponent's helmet.

Ser Clarence, caught square-stanced and with his dominant foot trapped under Arthur's, fell like a tree as Arthur, _knowing_ that his opponent was overthrown, wheeled back to meet Ser Edwyn, who had powered up off the ground and was in the act of throwing a lateral forehand cut, right to left. Arthur caught the blow on Dawn's ricasso, let go of Dawn's hilt with his left hand and upended the greatsword over Ser Edwyn's blade to half-sword it, and twisted back to the left, pushing off his right foot and sweeping it back behind him as he did so. Ser Edwyn, his sword trapped between Dawn's blade and Arthur's armored left arm, showed wisdom and quick thinking by letting his sword go and drawing his dagger, but Arthur was ready for him. Still half-swording Dawn, he caught Ser Edwyn's descending dagger arm on the third of his blade beyond his left gauntlet, guided it up and over, and then lunged forward, wrapping his left leg around Ser Edwyn's right as his left forearm hammered into the other knight's gorget.

Ser Edwyn fell in a clatter of plate as Ser Arthur let go of Dawn's blade, spun the greatsword back so that it's pommel slapped into his left hand, parried a rising backhand cut from Ser Clarence, and thrust upward as Ser Barristan shouted, "HOLD! Enough!"

When the marshal shouted _hold_, you stopped what you were doing on the spot. In this case, Ser Arthur stopped his upward thrust four inches short of the gap between Ser Clarence's tassets. That gap was covered by a ringmail skirt, but even so there were a round of winces and instinctive self-protective movements from the onlookers; knights were supposed to scorn death but some deaths just didn't bear thinking about. "Ser Edwyn," Ser Barristan said formally, "are you satisfied?"

Ser Edwyn, frozen in the act of getting up, raised a hand and opened his visor. "I am," he said, in exactly the same tone of voice in which he had announced the impossibility of Arthur's feat. "I admit that Ser Arthur Dayne is sufficiently skilled to defeat two knights of comparable skill by himself and repent of my earlier disbelief." He rose the rest of the way to his feet and turned to Arthur. "Although you keep your grip too loose on your hilt before you throw your first strike; the tightening of your fists gives away your intent."

As Ser Arthur recovered himself, Ser Clarence handed off his sword to his squire and pulled his helmet off. "Now, now, Edwyn," he said teasingly. "Let the poor man catch his breath before you start with him." He turned to the onlookers. "Well, sers, you saw him do it. Pay what you owe, please, like good gentlemen." A chorus of groans rose from the Golden Company men as they reached for their purses. Ser Clarence's squire passed back his sword and began to go around the ring collecting money.

Arthur frowned. "There was a bet as to whether I could win?" he asked incredulously. "And you bet against yourself?"

Ser Clarence shrugged. "You're the Sword of the Morning," he said simply. "I know what that means, even if these," he gestured at the knights around him, "do not. I pray you not judge all the knights of the Golden Company by the example of he who spoke against your sword, Ser Arthur; most of us were taught better."

Arthur nodded. "I will try to," he promised. "You fought well enough; how many years have you served?"

"Twenty-seven, come New Year's Eve," Ser Clarence said proudly. "Ever since my older brother was killed in the War of the Ninepenny Kings; he was one of Maelys' household men before your sworn brother there killed him on his way to killing Maelys." He raised a hand. "Fear not, ser, your brother is safe from me. My brother's dead, gods rest him, and killing Ser Barristan won't bring him back. Nor would I want to bring him back at this point, seeing as I married his wife after he died. I meant well by it, but it would be a bit difficult to explain, still." Arthur chuckled at the mental image thus provoked as Ser Clarence's squire joined them with a full money-pouch. "Thank you, Vogen," Ser Clarence said cheerfully. "Count it out and give half of it to Ser Arthur, if you please." He turned to Arthur. "For your time, ser, and as an apology for the slight on your name and fame."

Arthur nodded. "As you wish," he said, before turning to the squire. "Keep a gold dragon for yourself, lad, and drink a health to the dragon for me."

The squire bobbed his head. "I will that, ser, and thank you," he said in thickly accented Common Tongue. "Although it'll be a gold stag, like as not," he added with a shrug. "You see more of them than dragons these days."

Ser Clarence tapped him on the back of the head with a gauntleted hand. "A dragon is standing right there, lout," he said genially, pointing at King Viserys, who was beaming with pride. "Red or black, a dragon is still a dragon." He nodded to Arthur as his squire blushed and started counting. "Don't be alarmed if Ser Edwyn comes by every chance he gets asking to spar. Lives for the sword and the clash of arms, that one, and nothing else. Doesn't drink, doesn't wench, doesn't hardly eat beyond what the common mess serves."

"He's not touched in the head, is he?" Arthur asked cautiously. He didn't drink or chase women either, but that was a conscious choice on his part.

Ser Clarence shook his head. "Boy wants to be the best knight in the world, nothing else," he replied. "You want to talk to the part of him that cares about anything else, talk to his sister. Lissena by name, married to one of our lieutenants. She's the brains in that family, ser, make no mistake." Vogen finished counting, took a gold coin out of one of the two little piles of money he had made, poured the rest of that money back into the pouch and handed it to Arthur with a bow. As Arthur accepted it and Vogen began scooping the rest of the money into another purse, Ser Clarence bowed. "Good evening to you, ser," he said grandly. "Come by my tent anytime; second column from the center, fourth row on the northern side. You can't miss it."

Arthur nodded. "I think I will, at that," he said, "once I pay my respects to Ser Myles, of course." It would not be proper for him to pay a visit to the Golden Company's camp without their captain's leave, but Arthur saw little difficulty in that regard; Ser Myles Toyne had a fearsome reputation, but it was belied by his good nature. He didn't share Ser Clarence's attitudes about dragons, perhaps, but he was known as a man whose mind could be changed by sufficient argument.

XXX

Ser Gerion stepped back and saluted with his longsword, raising the visor of his sallet as he did so. "You really are getting better," he said cheerfully. "Either that, or I'm just getting soft." He rapped his gauntlet against the plackart of his breastplate. "It's this diet of signing papers and dispensing justice His Grace has me on; much more of it and I'll go flabby."

Eddard chuckled as he returned the salute and knocked the visor of his basinet upwards. "The men of the City Watch would beg to differ," he said teasingly. "Ser Mychel Egen's been grousing about you handling his lads like uppity squires." The City Watch carried staves and shortswords as a rule, but in the event of a siege the staves were to be replaced with bills, essentially a forward-hooked blade like a cleaver with a thrusting point and a back-spike on a seven-foot haft. The training to use them was much like that for using a stave, but it was different enough to require distinct training. Part of which was learning how to face an armored man with a longsword.

Ser Gerion shrugged. "Ser Mychel would have less to complain about if his lads would learn their lessons properly," he said with airy self-assurance as his squire stepped forward to take his sword and gauntlets. "Until they do, I'll just have to continue lending them my expertise." He raised an eyebrow. "Will His Grace be joining us today? I haven't seen him down here yet."

"He's reading through that file you gave him," Eddard replied, handing Saul his longsword and stripping off his gauntlets as his squire unbuckled the chinstrap of his helmet. "The one about the Braavosi nobility."

Gerion raised an eyebrow. "He's serious, then?" he asked. "Actually serious, I mean?"

"Extremely," Eddard affirmed, passing off his gauntlets and pulling his helmet off. "Seeing Lord Estermont in the fight at Solva made him take notice in a way that not much else would have. And when he tried taking the old man to task for it, Estermont told him that he was a fine one to talk, risking his life in a cavalry charge when he had no heir. Robert took it to heart."

"He knows that the Braavosi don't work the way we do, right?" Gerion asked, stripping off his own helmet and untying the strings of his arming cap. "Even if the Sealord had an available sister or daughter, which he doesn't, since his sister's past child-bearing age, marrying her wouldn't necessarily secure an alliance with the Commune. One of the ill-effects of having a government that's elective, not hereditary."

"He knows," Eddard said, pulling off his own arming cap and sighing in relief as sweat-painted skin met cooling air. "And it doesn't change the fact that he needs an heir; a legitimate heir, I should say, not one of his bastards." Alaesa had given birth the sennight before the army had returned from Alalia; her son Stalleo was a lusty infant with a shock of black hair and laughing blue eyes. They lived in a manse only a street away from the Palace of Justice now. "And he can't look to Westeros for a bride. Too complicated, as you should know."

Gerion grimaced as he nodded agreement. The thought of having a queen whose family came with interests and obligations in Stannis' realm was, to say the least, gut-clenching. "The Legion wouldn't have a problem with Stalleo as our next king, though," he pointed out. "Nor would I, for that matter, or you."

Eddard nodded. "Granted, but how many of the nobility and the chivalry would accept a legitimized bastard whose mother was a household slave as their king?" he asked.

Gerion shrugged. "Maybe one in four or five," he said in the voice of a man conceding defeat as he and Eddard walked over to one of the benches on the outskirts of the training yard, yielding their circle to a pair of knights from the first cavalry company who were facing each other with poleaxes. "And most of those would be either former slaves themselves or elevated hedge knights and freeriders." He shook his head as he sat down in a clatter of plate. "If only Alaesa had agreed to marry Robert," he went on mournfully. "It would have made this whole matter much simpler. And it would have been a masterstroke, from the standpoint of binding the Legion to the dynasty."

Eddard shrugged as he took a swallow from the canteen Saul handed to him. "The Legion will accept any heir Robert gives them," he pointed out. "Getting that heir accepted by the majority of the nobility and chivalry is the tricky part, and why Robert can't just marry one of the ladies from the fishing fleet." The fishing fleet being the steady stream of young women whose noble but impoverished or wealthy but non-noble families had shipped them to Myr to find a suitable husband to solve whichever problem the family had. "An heir that happens to be at least noble on both sides of the family, and whose birth entitles him to claim aid of the Commune if we need it . . ." He shrugged illustratively. The Commune was notoriously protective of its citizens; an unflattering commentator had once likened them to pigs in a sounder. "That being the case, who would you recommend?"

Gerion smoothed his moustache with his thumb and forefinger. "If we could get a Dandalo, I'd say to do so, but all of the marriageable Dandalo ladies are already spoken for. And not even for a king would the Dandalos be willing to break a betrothal contract, anymore than any other Braavosi clan." Eddard nodded agreement; to the mercantile Braavosi soul, breach of contract was a sin almost on par with murder. "That being so," Gerion went on, "I'd say that the Dorrma are the best bet going, or the Contarenos. Maybe the Venieri." He shrugged. "Of course, for our purposes, any noble family of Braavos would do, so long as they weren't blatantly unsuitable. It's not the resources of any particular clan we're hoping to bind to the throne, as much as a citizen's claim on the Commune's aid and protection."

Eddard nodded. "It would help if Robert could stand to be around them," he added. "Gods know Robert has never had any difficulty talking his way into a woman's bed, but a marriage is not a dalliance." He glanced upwards at the angle of the sun. "Speaking of which, I should go home for the evening; Amarya said that the cook was preparing something special."

"Something she can eat, hopefully," Gerion said laughingly. "I remember when Joanna had morning sickness; couldn't hardly smell a plate of cooked food without dashing for the privy for a month or more."

Eddard chuckled. "Fortunately, that seems to have passed," he said. "Now she's just complaining that none of her kirtles will lace up properly and that it seems foolish to get entirely new ones when she will no longer need them in less than a year."

Gerion laughed. "The drawbacks of having a frugal nature, I suppose," he said. "Thank the gods I don't have that problem. Give your lady my best regards, Ned."

"I will," Eddard said, smiling.

XXX

Grazdan mo Ullhor took up the quill, sparing a finger of his left hand to restrain the flowing sleeve of the silk shirt he wore under his tokar as he dipped it into the pot of gold-flecked ink, and with exquisite care began to write his name onto the treaty. Calligraphy was a high art among the children of the harpy, and it would shame his family if his was the least ornate signature on the treaty.

Especially since it was such a magnificent document. A great expanse of some of the finest vellum that Grazdan had ever seen, it stretched almost five feet long by at least three feet wide and was covered with fine calligraphy. The scribe-slaves, he had heard, had labored long and hard over the calligraphy of the articles of the treaty, and the artist-slaves had done a fine job on the harpies whose illustrations filled the ample margins.

Finally, he finished inscribing the last serif and flourish of his formal signature and stepped back from the table to let the next signatory add his name. Ordinarily, he would take a cup of wine (well-watered, of course, it being only a little past noon), but the slaves with their trays would not bring out the goblets until the last signature had been added. Nonetheless, he smiled; the celebrations would begin as soon as the last name was set down and they would be fine indeed.

It had taken a year and a half of careful negotiation, but he had done it, by the gods. If he accomplished nothing else, then men would remember the man who made possible the Pact of the Six Cities. It was not a formal alliance, true, but it was the greatest and most comprehensive treaty that had ever been signed by the cities of Slaver's Bay. Meereen, Yunkai, Grazdan's own Astapor, Tolos, Elyria, and New Ghis had all decided to show at least the semblance of a united front in the face of the new conditions obtaining in western Essos, settling longstanding disputes and rectifying conflicts of interest in pursuit of a greater goal.

It would have been impossible, Grazdan freely admitted, without the recent civil war in far-away Westeros. Even in Slaver's Bay they had heard of the madness of Aerys Targaryen and the folly of his son Rhaegar in stealing the intended bride of one of the foremost noblemen of his father's realm. And the greater folly of Robert Baratheon, who had abdicated his throne to pursue Rhaegar overseas. Grazdan remembered his astonishment when he had heard; had there been no assassins in Westeros? But even more astonishing had been how many had followed Robert on his mad quest. Truly Westeros was rich, to be able to spare so many idle warriors; fortunate also, to find a way to send them where they would be someone else's problem.

The subsequent wars had made their greatest impact on Slaver's Bay in two ways. Firstly, the loss of Pentos and Myr had reduced the market for slaves. Ordinarily, this would have been a bad thing, but the other effect of the conquests had been a dramatic increase in demand from those cities that remained free. After all, those cities could no longer rely on local sources to the same extent, and the foreseeable increase in uprisings and runaways had added an edge to the demand for slaves that were not only cheap, but _reliable_.

The Good Masters of Astapor had reaped the greatest dividends, of course, and Grazdan not least among them; not since the Century of Blood had there been such a demand for Unsullied. But they had quickly run into a problem. Between Lys, Volantis, Qohor's standing order, and sundry lesser purchasers, demand had outstripped supply. The Good Masters had expanded their schools, of course, but the unavoidable fact was that in order to make Unsullied you needed a large supply of healthy males in a certain age range; five-year-olds, for preference, but six or seven-year-olds at a pinch. The Good Masters rejected any boy older than eight as being too old to be properly molded. And you needed enough them to absorb the inevitable wastage.

The difficulty, and the second problem that had arisen, was that healthy young boys were in demand, well, _everywhere_. And many of the usual sources of supply had dried up; Volantis had recently placed new restrictions on the export of male slaves in good health, and Tyrosh had forbidden the export of slaves entirely on the grounds that they could not afford to lose more than they already had. Mantarys had attempted to profit off the western cities' desperation for slaves, but they had made the mistake of doing so a little too eagerly. A short and sharp war had cured them of their enthusiasm. There were other markets, Qarth to name only one, but the combination of distance and old rivalries made it unprofitable to turn to them. No, the cities of Slaver's Bay had needed a new or at least an improved supply of slaves to meet the demand, and at least enough cooperation to be able to bargain with the western cities as a collective from a position of strength.

Hence not only the Pact, but it's first joint enterprise. Lhazar, with its plentiful population and lack of martial tradition, would be an easy target. Not for conquest, admittedly; simple distance mitigated against it. But for the imposition of a treaty that respected their sovereignty in exchange for a sufficient tribute of slaves . . . Grazdan smiled. It was true that selllswords had become somewhat thin on the ground, what with the demand for their services in the west, but between Astapor's Unsullied, the legions of New Ghis, the slingers of Tolos, and the contingents that Yunkai and Meereen could field, he foresaw few problems. The main difficulty would be keeping everyone fed, but that would be a simple exercise for men who had to orchestrate the feeding and watering of convoys of ships carrying hundreds if not thousands of slaves.

The last signatory finished inscribing his name and stepped away from the table, and as the slaves brought out their goblet-laden trays Grazdan stepped forward and raised his right hand ceremoniously. "It is accomplished!" he proclaimed. "It is done, it is done, and thrice it is done! Masters all, a toast!" He took a goblet from a passing tray and raised it high as the other signatories copied him. "To the Pact of the Six Cities, and to our prosperity!"

The signatories echoed the toast solemnly.


	62. Chapter 62: Alliances

_Exactly what happened in Vaes Dothrak when Khal Pobo began to recruit followers for a revenge attack against the Kingdom of Myr remains unknown to this day. The few eyewitness accounts that survive do not agree on specifics, and the second and third-hand accounts are necessarily confused and contradictory. However, all sources agree on the general course of events . . ._

\- _Devils on Horseback: The Dothraki in the Generation of Blood_ by Maester Atkins, published 1132 AC

Pobo had never been unusually prone to anger. As a child and as a man both, his tendency to run cool rather than hot had been remarked upon. That, however, was before he had become a khal and had to deal with the irreligious fools who called themselves such.

He reminded himself, for the fifteenth time that day alone, that it was death to break the peace of Vaes Dothrak. There were ways around that restriction, of course, but none of them could be used here in Khal Zirqo's, now his, roundhouse with the fire in the central hearth illuminating the gloom and riders and their women lounging around the periphery. The Dothraki were not a people given to privacy.

"I say it again," he said. "The murder of Khal Zirqo is an insult to all Dothraki. And an insult can only be answered with blood."

"That is true," said Khal Rhadozho. "But that blood has already been spilled; you yourself have said so, many times. No one in Vaes Dothrak has not heard you summon men to your standard to rebuild your khalasar."

"Not enough," Pobo said, gritting his teeth. "Less than a thousand walkers were killed at Narrow Run."

"Then why should we help you?" asked Khal Achrallo, pausing as he raised another strip of spiced meat to his maw. "It is not the way of the world that the weak receive help from the strong, you know this. If you cannot avenge your khal, then fulfill your oath as his ko and open your throat."

Rhadozho nodded agreement. "It has been eight days since your shaman went to the Womb of the World to seek council with the god," he pointed out. "Never has the god taken more than four days to answer. The people of your khalasar know this; why else would more than a hundred of them have joined my khalasar just yesterday? You have delivered Zirqo's khaleesi to the dosh khaleen, and we honor you for it. But there is nothing left for you in this world."

Pobo shook his head, cursing his fate that the only other khals in Vaes Dothrak at the time were these two old fools. Khal Drogo would have taken up the challenge in a heartbeat, but he had taken his khalasar west from Vaes Dothrak ten days before Pobo had arrived; headed for the headwaters of the Selhoru, from what Pobo had heard, eyeing the Volantenes and the Qohori at their war. "I have sworn to kill the walker who killed my khal, and all who stand beside him," he repeated. "I cannot ride the nightlands by his side until that oath is fulfilled."

"Indeed, you cannot," came a voice from the door of the roundhouse, and the three khals and the riders lounging against the walls looked up to see the shaman standing in the doorway. His face was haggard from eight days of drumming and chanting with no more nourishment than water, but his eyes burned with a fire that hadn't been there when he went up the mountain. "I have spoken with the god," the shaman went on, advancing from the doorway to stand before the fire in the center of the house, "and it has answered my pleas. The Great Stallion is angered that Khal Zirqo was murdered, but one wilder than he is awakened. The Midnight Mare has seen that the walkers who killed Khal Zirqo grow in strength, and She is angered that such treachery should go unpunished. When Her fury is roused, none may stand before it and live; they may seek only to turn it aside."

Into the silence engendered by this pronouncement, Pobo stood forward. "How may this be done?" he asked the shaman. "What must we do, to avert the anger of She Who Brings Fear?"

The shaman raised his hands overhead. "This is what the Great Stallion has said to me," he intoned. "The walkers who slew Khal Zirqo must die, and those who stand with them must die. Their towns and their cities must be destroyed, and all their land made grass for horses. Not even one of the walkers who defiled the flag of truce must escape; even if they cross the poison water, we must follow them and slay them. Only when each of the walkers who slew Khal Zirqo under flag of truce is dead will the Midnight Mare be appeased, and her wrath stayed."

Pobo, rejoicing in his heart at this literally god-sent gift, bowed his head. "Then it shall be so," he said, matching the shaman's tone. "I shall give a gift to the Midnight Mare, to She Who Brings Fear. I shall ride west, with every man who will follow me. I shall fight the walkers who slew Khal Zirqo, and destroy them. I shall slay and spare none among them, not man or woman or child. I shall destroy their stone houses and burn their cities until nothing is left of them but ash. I, Pobo, will do this." By now he was shouting, and the riders who had been sitting around the walls of the roundhouse were on their feet roaring approval. "I shall kill the walkers of Myr, and of Pentos and Braavos!" he went on, now in full throat as the fury came upon him. "I shall follow them across the poison water if they flee, and kill until none of them remain alive! I shall make their lands grass for horses, raise a mountain of their skulls to the Midnight Mare, and bring their broken gods back to Vaes Dothrak! This I swear, I, Pobo son of Hajaero, before the Mother of Mountains, as the stars look down in witness!"

Achrallo and Rhadozho sprang to their feet, joining the riders in bellowing approbation. "As the stars look down in witness! As the stars look down in witness!" Pobo howled, sealing his vow with the most solemn oath the Dothraki held.

When, five days later, Khal Pobo rode out from Vaes Dothrak, Khals Achrallo and Rhadozho rode at his side, with twenty-five thousand riders behind them.

XXX

If there was one thing that the Commune of Braavos prided itself on more than its fleet and its laws, it was its knowledge. Trade, after all, required information on a thousand and one disparate factors, from weather patterns to currency exchange rates, and the act of commercial exchange generated a mountain of paperwork in bills of sale alone, to say nothing of tax receipts and property leases. Adding to the stream of information, each consul was required to draft and submit a report of any and all noteworthy doings and happenings within the city where he was posted quarterly, and the captains of the merchant galleys were likewise required to submit a report on their voyage. And all of this left aside the Commune's spies, of whom there were multitudes. The common saying was that where the Braavosi trod not even a sparrow fell but word was sent to the Titan.

The practical effect of all this was twofold. Firstly, the state archives of the Commune, counting both public and secret material, already covered some sixty miles of shelf space and were as jealously guarded as the Arsenal; no one, not even the Sealord, entered the Archives without first being searched for incendiary materials and being given an escort of two scribes, who were charged with both assisting the guest in his inquiries and making sure that they didn't alter, destroy, or steal anything.

The second effect was that no diplomats in the world were as well prepared to take up their duties as those of Braavos. When a consul or an ambassador was sworn in he (or, upon very rare occasion, she) was presented with a folio containing all the information available to the Commune on their destination, save only whatever knowledge was deemed too secret to be so disseminated (that was revealed to the ambassador when their ship was a day out of harbor by their secretary, who was invariably an agent of the Council). If the consul or ambassador was new to the location where they were being sent, someone was found who was reputed an expert on the place and dispatched with them as an advisor-without-portfolio; these, uniquely among ambassadorial and consular personnel, were permitted to engage in trade while in office, in order to soften the blow of such a disruption to their lives (although their accounts were rigorously examined by Council auditors in order to prevent corruption). Such advisors were also expected to inform the other members of an embassy or a consular staff about the place they were being sent, in order to prevent any occurrences that would jeopardize the profit or honor of the Commune.

Which was to say that Serina Phassos had had some idea of what to expect from the court of King Robert; she had paid attention to the lectures, after all. "Above all other things," former Viceroy and now (again) mere Justiciar Tregano Baholis had said, "the Westerosi prize the martial virtues. Strength, valor, loyalty, prowess, hardihood, determination; cunning to a degree, although an excess is frowned upon. These, combined with devotion to their gods, they term chivalry, the code by which their knights and lords are expected to abide. One of the greatest compliments a Westerosi can bestow upon someone is to name them a true knight."

But for all of Justiciar Baholis' lectures, the court of King Robert still gives her pause. Just to start with, it is almost entirely undecorated. The chamber where the Sealord and the Council received foreign dignitaries was richly appointed, both in furnishings and in decoration, with a great mural depicting the Unmasking of Uthero covering the wall behind the Sealord's chair. Here the walls are bare save for a few weapons, helmets, and shields mounted in brackets, with pride of place nearest the throne going to a crudely made two-handed war hammer, a raven-crested helmet shaped like a barrel, and a red shield depicting a lion rampant under a five-pointed star. And instead of the intricately carved near-throne that the Sealord sat on when speaking with the Commune's voice, the throne here is a simple chair, without so much as a cushion that Serina can see, mounted on a low dais. And instead of a mural or fresco, the wall behind the throne is decorated by only three banners; the crowned stag of the Baratheon dynasty directly behind the throne, the spear and broken chain of the Legion on its left, and the sunset sky and impaled dragon's head of the Sunset Company on it's right.

The other thing that makes Serina blink, and which makes her brother's arm tighten around hers when the embassy entered the hall, is the way that the people are dressed. In Braavos, the magisters and wealthy merchants tended to an austere elegance even in their most formal clothing, but the austerity was only in the cut and decoration; the most common cloth that an upper-class Braavosi would wear to the Sealord's Palace was very finely-woven linen. Cotton and silk were more usual. And weapons were never worn in the Palace; the only person in all of Braavos permitted to bear arms in the Sealord's presence was his First Sword, save in emergencies or on those exceedingly rare occasions when the Sealord went on campaign. Anyone summoned to the Sealord's Palace was required to leave his weapons in the care of the Porter.

At King Robert's court, by contrast, every man and woman is carrying at least one weapon, ranging from the silver-hilted poniard at the waist of the lady nearest to Serina to the longswords that at least half of the men in the room wear suspended from the belt of linked plates that Justiciar Baholis had described as a mark of knighthood. And while the ladies at least are wearing recognizably formal gowns, almost every man in the room is wearing armor. Most wear only half-armor, but a few are in plate or mail from throat to feet. And while in many cases that armor is beautifully decorated (one man not ten feet from her has seven stars inlaid in bronze on the breastplate of his cuirass) it is still clearly _armor_; that of the man nearest her, for instance, is seamed with bright lines that she can only assume are the results of someone trying to cut through it and failing.

The impetus behind this display of martial splendor is clear enough, as the embassy is being received not only by King Robert, but by all the high officers of his government, every man of them in full plate armor save for helmets and their gauntleted hands resting on the hilts of sheathed longswords as they stand arrayed like guardsmen before the dais. As Ambassadress Dorysa Antaryon rises from her courtesy (making the rest of the embassy straighten from their own bows and courtesys) and proffers the embassy's credentials, Serina keeps nervousness at bay by putting faces to the names and sigils that Justiciar Baholis had drilled into them aboard the ship. At the far left of the line, on King Robert's right, stands a young man (only a year or three older than her if she is any judge) with a face already developing seaman's wrinkles and a black beard tied in a short braid; _Victarion Greyjoy_, she thinks with a glance at the golden kraken embroidered on the front of his surcoat, _Lord Lieutenant of Ironhold, Warden of the Sea of Myrth, and Master of Ships_. And also, she remembers, brother to Lord Balon Greyjoy of Pyke and Euron Greyjoy, lately King's Castellan of Ghaston Grey and more recently, they have learned, master of ships to King Stannis of Westeros.

Just to his left is a slightly older man with short-cropped hair and a plain, square face, whose surcoat shows a sun, crescent moon, and star above a white field; _Ser Mychel Egen, Master of Law_, she remembers, a dour man but an effective one, by all reports. To Ser Mychel's left, and at the right hand of the king himself, is a dark-haired man about Lord Greyjoy's age whose long, somber face is given a menacing air by the scar that runs along one cheek; _Eddard Stark,_ she knows by the direwolf on his surcoat, _the King's Fist, commonly called the Iron Wolf._ A figure of nigh-proverbial ferocity to the enemies of his king and his people, but reputedly a devoted husband withal and soon to be a father if the gods were kind. On the other side of the king, standing at his left hand and passing him the embassy's credentials, is an urbanely handsome man with earlobe-length blonde hair and a red half-cloak draped over his left shoulder; _Gerion Lannister,_ she guesses easily enough, _Hand of the King_. By all reports, he ruled on his king's behalf when he was away on campaign, and judging by what she had seen of the city so far, he had done a good job of it. Next to him was the only man of the lot who seemed properly of an age to govern, a lean and craggy-faced man with greying hair and bushy eyebrows; _Brynden Tully,_ she knows from the black trout on his surcoat, _Master of Soldiers_. Reportedly he was the one man that everyone in the Kingdom of Myr respected unreservedly; the Iron Legion, it was said, accorded the Blackfish only slightly less honor than they did their king. And at the far end of the line there stood a great bulk of a man whose round face perched like a mustachioed moon above his gorget; _Ser Wendel Manderly, Master of Coin_, she deduced by process of elimination. Arguably one of the two or three most vital men in the whole government of the Kingdom of Myr, as he was the one who had to find how to pay for, well, _everything._

A slight squeeze on the arm from her brother brings her attention to the king, who has stood to address the court. As he does so there is a rustle of short bows from the courtiers; this they have been warned about, that after the first full reverence the custom of the court is to tender the sort of bow that would be given in the field. So the embassy follows suit, and as they do so Serina sees Robert Baratheon for the first time and cannot help a blink of astonishment.

With all the tales describing King Robert as something very near to the Andal god of war, disappointment at him being merely human would have been reasonable. But no such disappointment occurs; while he is not truly a giant, he is still one of the mightiest-looking men that she has seen outside the denizens of traveling shows. His half-armor covers him in steel from throat to hips to wrists, but it does nothing to hide the strength of his build. His face is regularly handsome save for a slight kink in his nose where it was most likely broken at some point, with strong features, a jaw more adorned than hidden by a short-cropped warrior's beard, and thick black hair pulled back into a short braid. He may be young, but the effect is no less powerful.

And it is made more so by the simplicity of his regalia. Serina, not being immune to fashion, has read some of the Andal tales of chivalry that have become popular in Braavos since the landing of the Sunset Company and its aid in the Conquest of Pentos. Some were tedious, some puzzling, and a few thrilling, but a common thread in all of them is the attention lavished upon the description of a lord's appearance, much less that of a king; the splendor of their armor and weapons, the richness of their regalia when not at war, the rarity of the trophies they display in their halls, all bear testament to the character's position and power, with pages spent not only on their description but on their history and provenance. An Andal leader was known by the magnificence of his dress, a trope confirmed by the splendor of even this most martial of courts.

King Robert, by contrast, is simply attired. Even she can tell that his armor is excellently made, but it is plain burnished steel, absent the engraving and inlay seen on the armor of his lords. Of ornaments and baubles, he had only two; the famed Two Dragons of the Peace of Pentos, strung on a silver chain about his neck, and an unembellished golden circlet around his head. The only people in the room more simply attired than he are the servants stationed around the hall. Even the King's Fist, a man famously dismissive of ostentation, is wearing armor that has been etched to give it the appearance of fur, and the knuckles of his gauntlets are embossed with decorative wolf claws.

Even more shocking is the fact that alone of all the men in the room of military age, King Robert bears no weapons. His famous hammer, his longsword, and his dagger all rest on a rack crowned by his famed antlered helmet, which stands just behind and to the right of the throne and is attended a young knight with dark hair and a slightly pockmarked face. It is only a short distance, to be sure, but nonetheless significant in this hall where every other man and woman goes armed. Later discussions of the import of this among the ladies-in-waiting will come to two possible conclusions. Firstly, that King Robert cannot conceive that anyone who means him harm can penetrate into the heart of his power. Secondly, and more flatteringly, that it is a gesture of faith on Robert's part that anyone who does mean him harm will first have to cut their way through his courtiers and almost certainly die in the process. Serina cannot help but argue in favor of the latter.

Especially since, when the court was adjourned after the embassy was welcomed, she chances to lock eyes with him when he looks away from the Ambassadress. There is confidence in those eyes, to be sure, but not arrogance; she knows the difference well enough from watching her brother's friends. The rest of what she sees in King Robert's eyes she cannot bring herself to say, even when her fellows all but beg her to do so. All she can think is that it is a pity that none of the songs and stories give a fitting description of the eyes of Robert the Strong.

XXX

Daario couldn't help a smirk as he and the commander of the local garrison rode to meet Mero under a flag of truce. The weather might be turning poor but _he had pulled it off;_ twenty days of forced marching, with a few skirmishes along the way, had seen the Stormcrows arrive safely in Lyseni territory while leaving less than a hundred dead men in their wake. Future historians might denigrate his accomplishment because it was not accompanied by rivers of blood, but Daario knew that he had planned and executed perhaps the neatest forced march through hostile territory that had been undertaken in living memory.

And the Lyseni, for their part, seemed to be welcoming. The local commander, a minor magister's son named Harloquo Vynolis, had been positively eager to provide food and camping space for Daario's men, and had sent off a dispatch rider to Lys city the same day. The Conclave might be putting its trust in the Unsullied it had recently purchased, he had told Daario over a glass of surprisingly good wine for a frontier post, but four hundred and twenty-six veteran cavalry were not to be sneezed at. Wars had been decided by fewer men in the past.

Mero, for his part, seemed exceedingly displeased; unsurprisingly perhaps, especially since he must have fallen for the false trail that Daario had laid, the one that indicated that he was bound for Dubris and Myrish service rather than the Lyseni border town of Barium. He must have felt a proper fool. "Give me one reason," the red-bearded mercenary ground out even before the customary exchange of pleasantries had been made, "why I should not cut you out of the saddle and have my boys massacre your pack of deserters."

"I'll give you two reasons," Daario said smoothly. "Reason the first: if you were confident that you could win such a battle, we would not be having this conversation. Reason the second: if you attack a company under contract with Lys, then you will have effectively declared war on Lys in Tyrosh's name. I doubt the Archon will be very happy with you overstepping your authority in such a way."

Mero paused, and then turned to Commander Vynolis. "Is that true, that he and his are under contract?" he asked suspiciously.

"A preliminary contract," Vynolis said with a shrug, "pending negotiations with the conclave, but yes."

"Then you should know that this one," Mero jerked a thumb at Daario, "ran out on his last contract, and encouraged his company to do likewise. His word isn't worth slave-shit."

"You were always a fool, Mero," Daario said pityingly. "_Think_, man; the Tyroshi aren't just at war with the Myrish, they've poked a thumb in the Titan's eye. When was the last time that ended well for anyone? The Westerosi did it once, but they had a continent behind them. If the Archon doesn't sue for terms and that quickly, then he'll be facing the Iron Legion _and_ the Braavosi fleet, and even Salladhor Saan won't be able to save him." Daario shrugged. "Give it a year, maybe two or three," he went on, "and there won't be anything left of Tyrosh but ash and corpses; anyone with half a brain can see it. We're sellswords, not fanatics. We aren't obligated to die in a hopeless cause."

Mero turned back to Daario with an ugly expression on his face. "I always knew you for a ponce, Daario, but I never figured you for a coward," he snarled. "I'd challenge you, if I thought there was half a chance of it being accepted."

"I've called you a fool already," Daario said, allowing disgust to seep into his voice, "I cannot do so again. I will leave you to find your death without me; I just wish that so many good men did not have to die with you." Daario neck-reined his horse around and began to trot back to his company's encampment, trying to pretend that he had not felt Mero's words like blows against his pride.

XXX

Robert leaned back in one of the better chairs in his solar and steepled his fingers. "Well?" he asked his two closest advisors. "What do you think?"

Eddard shrugged. "The offer seems genuine to me," he allowed. "Letting Adaran swear himself to you may have been part of a lawyer's dodge, but it is a good gesture."

Robert nodded. "Although I confess to be at a loss as to what we're supposed to do with him," he admitted. "The household would be the best place for a bravo, but we can't put him in it; wouldn't be fair." In order to secure a place in Robert's household men you needed to be either an original veteran of the Sunset Company or a tested and exemplary soldier. Simply giving a place to a foreign bravo without a day's experience in the field, and a convicted criminal serving a term of exile at that, would be insulting to the other men of the household. "Can you find a place for him, Ned?"

"Not without the same problems of putting him in your household, your grace," he replied. Eddard's household was considered only slightly less of an elite corps than Robert's; the rivalry between the two would have been fierce if it wasn't known that neither the King nor his Fist would tolerate any such thing. "We could always find him a place in a Legion company, for all that he's a bravo and not a foot soldier. A pity he's too old to make a knight out of him; we'd be able to make him someone's squire if he was." Robert nodded; Adaran was of an age to squire, but he was too old to start knightly training from the ground up. In order to make a good enough horseman to serve as a knight, you needed to start riding by the age of six or seven. And by his own admission Adaran had passed all his life in the lagoon of Braavos, where there was neither grazing nor even room to keep horses. The Braavosi were a nation of mariners, not horsemen.

Gerion shrugged. "If you don't want him, I'll take him," he offered. "My household is less, shall we say, fashionable than either of yours is, and less likely to be jealous. And I could use a young man with an intimate knowledge of Braavos who isn't afraid of a fight, so long as he can be taught to think. As for the offer," he looked out the window pensively. "The fact that Fortunato Dandalo is behind this shift in policy is promising, very promising," he mused. "The Dandalos tend to steer a safe course when it comes to politics. For them to come out in support of the Sharks like this . . ." Gerion nodded again, this time with the air of a man coming to a decision. "I agree with Ned; the offer is genuine. And quite good, at that."

Robert nodded. "The Titan doesn't make war without both hands, it seems," he said, glancing down at the paper that the ambassadress had presented to him and which contained the bare details of the proposed alliance. A fully manned fleet of two hundred galleys at six months' notice or three hundred galleys at nine months' notice, a lump sum of one hundred thousand gold dinars and a new line of credit on the Iron Bank, the services of two thousand heavy infantry for a year at the Commune's expense, recognition of the Kingdom of Myr's claim to any and all territory taken on the mainland, and a pledge to negotiate no separate peace with 'any city or state that permits the evil of slavery' in return for the isle of Tyrosh, the Stepstones, the isles of Lys, and perpetual most-favored-nation status in matters of commerce was, on the face of it, a very good deal indeed.

The devil, however, would be in the details, as always. Robert turned to Eddard. "Ned, meet with First Sword Forel and work out a plan for the reduction and conquest of Tyrosh. Plan on starting the war no later than a year from now."

Eddard nodded. "I'll need Ser Brynden for some of the mustering details," he said. "And Victarion for the naval side of things."

"You'll have them," Robert said. "This matter is the foremost priority until further notice. Gerion," he went on as he turned to his Hand, "we'll need you and Wendel to work out the minutiae of how much this next war is going to cost."

Gerion made a face. "It'll be steep, I can tell you that much," he said sourly. "Four wars in as many years is a lot of potential work left undone, especially since our seaborne trade keeps getting cut off. Having the Iron Bank undo the purse strings will help, but we may need to introduce some new taxes."

Robert and Eddard both winced; introducing new taxes was never a pleasant exercise. "Well, see what you can do, in any case," Robert replied. "If nothing else, the loot from Tyrosh will go some way to covering any gaps." Theoretically a third of all portable loot was supposed to be turned over to the treasury, but compliance varied across the army. The Legion tended to be more diligent, but some of the cavalry companies had shown a discrepancy between the amount of loot they were said to have taken and the amount that had been surrendered. On the other hand, conquered real estate became crown property, which made for a substantial asset.

"One other thing, Gerion," Robert said. "When the ambassadress presented her credentials, did you mark the ladies of her retinue?"

Gerion frowned. "I'm afraid I did not," he confessed. "Not closely, at any rate."

"One of them caught my eye," Robert said. "The one on Adaran's arm. A pretty thing, and more intelligent than most of the others were likely to be, judging from what little I saw of her."

Gerion nodded slowly. "I take it that this is related to the other great matter you have in mind, your grace?" he asked cautiously. Robert nodded. "Shall I make inquiries?"

"Discreet ones," Robert said. "I'd rather not disrupt this matter of the alliance. Start with Adaran; he was on her arm and there seemed something of a resemblance. And since he is now one of your household, we can swear him to secrecy on the matter."

Gerion nodded agreement. "By your leave, I shall begin immediately," he said, and at Robert's wave he stood from his chair, bowed shortly, and strode out the door.

Eddard waggled his eyebrows at Robert. "Would you like me to recommend a tailor?" he said teasingly. "You'll need a wedding suit, and I happen to know a good one."

Robert shook his head. "'To make rabbit stew, first catch the rabbit'," he replied, quoting a proverb from the Dornish Marches. "It's a slight interest for now, and may come to nothing. If Gerion's inquiries prove fruitful, however . . ." he shrugged. "Tell your tailor to keep his needles sharp, at any rate."


	63. Chapter 63: Horizons

Jonothor was not naturally given to apprehension. Somehow, by the grace of the gods, he had always known what the right thing to do in any given situation was; or, at least, the least bad thing given the natural constraints upon human knowledge and action. There were some things that it was not given to man to amend, or even change. That was part of the reason for faith.

But here and now, in the First Sept of Myr, the one place where he should rightly feel safest in all the world, he is afraid. Because of what is on the table in front of him.

It was a humble thing to inspire fear, being a mere roll of parchment. But what it contains, he knows, is no less deadly a weapon than a keg of wildfire on a slow fuse. Lifting it gingerly, he reread the first two lines; the root from which all the rest of the document had grown. _In matters concerning virtue and the salvation of souls, every man and woman has the right to be judged, not on the content of their beliefs, but upon the practical effects generated by their acting upon those beliefs. A man who does not believe in the Seven but who acts justly, tempers his actions with mercy, and walks humbly along the path that the gods have laid before him, is more deserving of the Heavens than a man who believes in the Seven with all the force of his soul and yet does none of these things._

It was nothing more or less than a direct attack upon the doctrine of _foi seule_, which held that faith alone was necessary to enter the Seven Heavens. It had been a controversial doctrine since its inception some five centuries before the Conquest, but it was still the foundation of the Faith as it currently stood. After the Dance of Dragons and the collapse of the Doctrine of Exceptionalism, it had been the principle that justified the Targaryen monarchy; they believed in the Seven and the doctrines of the Faith, even if they so rarely acted in accordance with them, and so their rule was no different from that of any other lord. It was also, Jonothor's teachers at seminary had explained, a uniquely comforting doctrine for the smallfolk, for even if their ignorance and poverty prevented them from fulfilling every jot and tittle of the Faith's strictures their faith would ensure them a place in the Heavens regardless.

That, Jonothor is willing to concede. What he is not willing, and not able, to concede is that faith alone was enough to outweigh all of a man's sins. By canon law, mere contrition over and confession of sins was not enough; the penitent had to do something to make amends for their sins in order for the sacrament of penance to be effective. And yet he had seen men with the weight of mortal sins on their soul be promised swift access to the Heavens, simply because they believed in the Seven.

His teachers at seminary, and later his superiors, had told him not to concern himself with these things but to concern himself with the needs of his parishioners; that it was not fitting for one lowly septon to take upon himself the moral guardianship of every soul he came across. And he had done so, keeping to his lowly septry in Flea Bottom and trying to restrain himself from confronting his erring brothers in ministry; with only moderate success, he would be the first to admit. But then he had been sent with the Sunset Company, and he had seen more worthy behavior from men who actively scorned the Seven than he had seen from the Most Devout. Who was more worthy of the Heavens; an old gods-worshipping Northman who wore mail and boiled leather, ate plain food, and daily risked his life in a holy cause or a prelate who wore silk and samite, ate only of the finest viands, and had never once risked his life in any cause, holy or otherwise?

It was a question that had demanded an answer. Hence this document, this protestation, before him, the product of months of theological, ethical, and moral inquisition. There is nothing in it that he would not defend, but still he hesitates to put his name to it. For once he does, there would be no turning back, no possibility of reconciliation with the Great Sept. This document he had written was the torch that would burn the last bridge between him and the faith that had raised him.

And it would not affect him alone. The other septons who had followed the Sunset Company across the sea had all pledged to follow him, and every month brought a trickle of septons from Westeros who came to see what all the fuss was about. Some of them held to the Great Sept, but as many had taken to preaching the new doctrine that they all ascribed to Jonothor. And the people listened; he doubted that the worship of R'hllor would ever be fully supplanted in the Kingdom of Myr, but at least a third and perhaps as many as a half of the Iron Legion now worshipped the Seven, and most of them did so under the doctrine of works. It was, Jonothor should have guessed, a doctrine almost uniquely suited to the Legion, who either by training or inclination were men of action to a one. But exactly what the doctrine of works meant, and how it differed from the Faith and how it did not, had never been explicitly set out. Hence this document, which is meant to answer that question.

But did the need to properly explain his position to those who followed him outweigh the need for peace? If he signed this document it would be tantamount to declaring war on the Great Sept, and it was an inescapable fact that war brought death and destruction everywhere it marched. Wars of religion especially; the chronicles of the rebellion of the Faith Militant against Maegor the Cruel made for grim reading, as did the tales of the wars of Faithful against Faithful before the Conquest. Jonothor has learned enough of leadership to know that he owes those who follow him, and his non-believing allies like Lord Stark, as peaceful a course as he can steer for them. Nor would the dying be confined to those who might be said to deserve it; Leofric Corbray was not the first good man to be swayed to the service of evil, nor would he be the last.

But to refuse to sign this document, to reconcile with the Great Sept, would mean another sacrifice of truth on the altar of politics; an abdication of justice in favor of peace. He sets the parchment back down on the table and raises his hand to his brow. At seminary, in the final year of instruction before ordination, one of the instructors had asked him if there was anything in the Faith, in the scriptures, in the writings of the patriarchs, in the decrees of the High Septons, anything at all that he would not be willing to defend at cost of his life. "For," that formidable old septon had said, glowering at him over his spectacles, "it may be that you will be called to uphold the Faith as a martyr, as in the days of Maegor, and you will be required to defend the tenets and doctrines of our Faith even on the scaffold. If there is anything you cannot defend while chained to the stake with the flames rising about you, say so now, and we will see what may be done."

There had not been, then. Likewise now, he decides, there is nothing in this document that he would not defend with his life. And he cannot bear, he decides, to allow what he knows to be right to be stifled. If there is one thing he has learned, here in Essos, it is that it is better by far to fight to the death for what you know to be right than to sacrifice virtue for the sake of peace. Slowly he signs himself with the seven-pointed star. _Gods all defend me, on this path you have set before me._ He takes the quill from the inkpot and slowly inscribes his name on the bottom of the document.

XXX

Owen Merryweather could only shake his head in amazement. He had known that the Braavosi were an industrious people, but he had never seriously considered how that natural industry could be applied to war. Not until the new Viceroy of Pentos, under instructions to ensure that King Stannis' ambassador appreciated how seriously the Titan was taking the Battle of Tyrosh and its consequences, had shown him.

The Little Arsenal, he had been assured, only had about half of the capacity of _the_ Arsenal, but it was still one of the greatest manufactories in the world. Two days ago, Owen had been taken on a tour of the Little Arsenal and shown how stockpiles of seasoned timber, brass nails, tar, raw wool, ropes, sails and pre-forged metal fittings could be turned into a great galley in five to six days. Yesterday, he had been taken out to the great drill field outside the city walls and shown some of the Viceroyalty's soldiers at drill. Each battalion (the term, he had been told, was derived from the old practice of referring to military formations as battles) consisted of five hundred men, divided into two companies of crossbowmen and three of pikemen; the fourteen-foot length of the pikes, he was told, was a compromise between the need for length when in the open field and the need for handiness when on shipboard. What had been more astonishing than the discipline of the men at drill (he had been told that only their officers and sergeants had previously been soldiers, the rest being either former slaves or immigrants from the lagoon of Braavos or points elsewhere), however, was the fact that each and every man, down to the crossbowmen, was wearing at least a breastplate and helmet, while the pikemen's armor included tassets, vambraces, and half-gauntlets. Truly Braavos was rich, he had thought then, to be able to put even its common soldiers in plate armor instead of the more usual brigandines.

But the true power of Braavos, as embodied in the Viceroyalty of Pentos, was what he was seeing right now; a column of a hundred heavy wagons loaded with sacks of grain rumbling through the Sunrise Gate. That grain, only a fraction and not a large one at that of the yield of the farms nearest Pentos city, was on its way to the city's bakeries, where it would be baked into ship's biscuit to feed the fleet and the battalions they would dispatch to Myr, with a tenth held back to bolster the winter reserves. This column, he had been assured by the Viceroy, was only the first one expected this month, out of a total of twenty from all over the Pentoshi hinterlands.

Owen, like every feudal lord in Westeros, had a marrow-deep understanding of the importance of food; when the yield of your lands constituted eighty to ninety percent of your yearly diet and sixty to seventy percent of your yearly income, food was literally power. For the Braavosi to be able to feed themselves, their new citizens, their fleet, and a small army all at the same time, and all out of their own resources, was an expression of power that Owen was hard-pressed to find an equal to. This, he understood, was why the Braavosi had used the Sunset Company to conquer Pentos, more than simply enforcing the laws against slavery. Pentos city and its hinterland held almost as many people as the original Braavosi lands had, and the fields of Pentos, well-watered by the rains off the Narrow Sea and the multitude of streams and small rivers that spidered over the landscape, where more than fertile enough to feed them. Especially when the yield of those lands was added to the rich fisheries of the northern seas.

His next letter to King Stannis, Owen decided as another wagon rumbled and squeaked past him, would advise him that the Commune of Braavos would be a powerful friend and a dangerous enemy for the foreseeable future. And that if he was any judge, Tyrosh's days were numbered.

XXX

Ser Barristan Selmy paused as he saw who his sworn brother was speaking to. He had known that the Dragon Company had attracted attention in unusual quarters, priests of the Lord of Light and the Valyrian gods and a variety of so-called wizards and sorcerers and the like, but he hadn't expected them to come into the open like this. Yet there was the warlock, albino-pale skin glowing luridly in the light of the setting sun, bent deferentially as he and Ser Arthur conversed. Eventually the warlock bowed almost parallel with the ground and walked away with a mincing sort of gait that made Barristan's sword hand twitch; he couldn't help the feeling that the warlock could move a lot faster if he wanted to.

Shaking his head to collect himself he strode up to his sworn brother. "Since when did we traffic with warlocks, brother?" he asked brusquely; normally he and Arthur were on much more cordial terms, but the warlock had unsettled him.

Arthur shrugged. "Since we came within three days' march of the Sorrows," he replied, as if it were obvious. "The mists do things to a man's mind, or so it is said. Greel claims that he and his fellows can prevent such 'interference', as he calls it. Or at least mitigate it."

"And you believe him?" Barristan demanded incredulously.

"Only as far as I can kick him," Arthur said conciliatingly. "I'll believe in magic the day that one of our dragon eggs hatches. But if our men believe that they have at least some protection from the mists . . ." he shrugged again. "In the absence of an able septon of our own, we have to take what help we can get. It's not like we can ask the Golden Company to loan us one of theirs; even if they would give one over, they've been praying and blessing almost the whole clock 'round."

Barristan gave a grudging nod. He was old enough to know that there while there was much truth to the saying that believing a thing didn't make it so, there were still exceptions. Any man who had seen a man walk across hot coals and glass shards with not a burn or a scratch on him, as he had once seen at a tourney in the Crownlands, would admit that. And he was also willing to admit that the stories about the Sorrows, and the mists that lay upon them, were enough to give even him the shivers, and not for nothing was he called 'the Bold'. The common soldiers were downright fearful of the possibility of having to march through the mists and face what lay within them. "I mislike it," he said flatly. "Magic is a sword without a hilt at the best of times, and unclean besides; both the Faith and the maesters agree that to practice magic is to commit abomination."

Arthur nodded. "Even the followers of the old gods fear magic," he agreed, "and with reason, if the old legends are to be believed. Fear not, brother; I don't plan to use Greel and his ilk any more than necessary."

"Be ruled by me in this, brother, and make the necessity as rare as possible," Barristan said. "For the sake of our souls, if nothing else." As Arthur nodded agreement, Barristan glanced after the warlock. "What brings a warlock this far west, anyway?" he asked suspiciously. "I thought they stayed in Qarth."

"For the most part, they do," Arthur replied. "But some of them reside in Volantis; they are not popular even among those Volantenes that patronize what they call 'the Art', but there is some demand for their services. Greel thought we would refuse him out of hand, so he went to Donys first, to volunteer his abilities and those of his little cabal. He claims that what is happening, here along the Rhoyne, on the coast, even in Westeros, is contradicting prophecy and he wants to see where it leads us."

"All the gods be merciful and let it not be down the throat of something unnatural," Barristan said tartly.

Arthur smiled. "As to that, I have an answer for anything that Greel or any other charlatan conjures out of their hat," he said lightly, touching the hilt of Dawn where it protruded over his shoulder. "Dawn has faced more dire enemies than men before, if the legends are to be believed. It is still here and they are not."

XXX

The butts at Ironkeep were regularly used; Ser Vernan Irons was an old enough veteran to know the value of good archers and crossbowmen. The four archers of his household were under standing orders to shoot at least thirty arrows a day in practice, weather and other duties allowing. Which was why Amy's Jon, Black Sim, Diccon Waggoner, and Will Poacher were at them before luncheon; the clouds they had seen that morning looked unpromising and Ser Vernan was not the sort to accept flimsy excuses. And even less so now than usual, Black Sim had observed, at least ever since he had come back from attending to business in Myr.

"I mean, he always had a bee in his arse about practice," Black Sim said as he stepped up to the mark and drew an arrow from the bag at his belt. "But now he's downright fierce about it. Had the men-at-arms running up and down the stairs half the day yesterday, in full armor too."

"Course he is," Amy's Jon said in his thick Westerland accent. "Man's getting married, unless I miss my guess. He wants to show off for his lass."

Will Poacher swore as he fouled his release in surprise. "Damn you, Jon," he snarled, glaring at his messmate. "Didn't your mother ever teach you not to go telling lies?"

Amy's Jon shrugged. "Which I saw him down on one knee in front of a fine-looking lassie from the fishing fleet," he said defensively. "And I don't think he was swearing her fealty, either. And he went to a goldsmith before we left the city, and I heard him talking to the smithy about making a ring for a lady."

Diccon Waggoner waited until he loosed his arrow before nodding approval. "Good for the Old Man," he said. "My parents saw what happened when the old Lord Leygood died without leaving a clear heir, back in the Reach; blood you could paint houses with."

Sim frowned. "That wouldn't happen here though, would it?" he asked. "I mean, what with the royal inspectors going around making sure we're all being good little boys and girls and poking their noses into everything. I heard as some lord over Campora way got clapped in irons because he was tumbling lasses without their leave."

Diccon, who was something of a barrack-room lawyer, shrugged. "Think about it," he said. "If the Old Man died without a son, right, and had a brother or a cousin or a nephew as wasn't fit to pour piss out of a boot, and we were told that he had the lordship now, how many of us would let him have it? Knowing that the next time the ravens flew he'd be leading us to war."

Will gave a caw of laughter. "With Lord Axewell just down the road being the Old Man's sword-brother and fit enough to take over from him?" he asked sarcastically. "We'd see how well the worthless cousin liked a taste of his lordship's axe, and help to arrange the meeting besides."

There was a round of nods from the other archers. "The Old Man's a good lord, aye," said Jon, "but if I couldn't serve him, I'd serve Lord Axewell like that," he snapped heavily calloused fingers. "Nor would I be the only one, either." There were even more nods as Jon went back to reaching for a new arrow.

"Well, if the Old Man's getting married, we'll have to see that all our kit is scrubbed up," Will said, nocking an arrow and rifling it into the target with only a light grunt of effort as he pulled back the hundred-and-ten pound draw-weight on his massive bow. "Bows repainted, mail polished, swords re-sharpened, and all. Might even have to bathe."

"From your lips to the gods' ears, man," Sim said, signing himself with the seven-pointed star. "In weather like what we've been getting?" He jerked a thumb up at the fat, dark clouds that had been crawling southward all day. "We'll get the ague, or worse."

"Afraid of a little water, Sim?" Diccon said teasingly. "Afraid that all the color will wash off you and your mother won't recognize you?" Jon cackled as Sim, swarthy and sensitive about it, said something uncomplimentary about Diccon's mother and made an obscene gesture.

"Stuff it, the pair of you," Will snapped as he let fly his last arrow. "Save it for the bastard slavers; you know we'll be facing them again by and by. And if you think otherwise, then I've got a castle going spare you might be interested in."

"So long as the loot's better than last time," Jon said as he loosed his last arrow and unstrung his bow. "Didn't get more than a handful of coppers out of Alalia."

"Just you wait until we do for Tyrosh, boyo," said Will, who was the oldest in service of all of them, having chosen to sail with the Sunset Company instead of losing his fingers for taking a stag in the Kingswood. "If it's anywhere near as rich as Myr was . . ." he cackled reminiscently.


	64. Chapter 64: Houses

Lyn Corbray sighed in bone-deep satisfaction. Outside of war, _this_, he was convinced, was life as the gods meant it to be lived.

The weather was perfect; warm but not hot and sunny without being obnoxiously bright, with a breeze just crisp enough to make it worth wearing a cote over his doublet. The fields of Forlorn Hall, his home estate outside of Sirmium, had been shorn down to stubble by the harvest and the first celebrations were already underway in the village below the castle. He smiled indulgently; gods knew his smallfolk had reason to celebrate. A short and victorious war without too many dead, a good harvest augmented by the soldiers returning home, and news that a new friend was joining them in the great war. He was minded to let them enjoy themselves, so long as they didn't get so boisterous as to forget the laws.

For himself, he was perfectly content to take a late luncheon in the vineyard just an hour's ride from the heart of the estate, with only his guards and the most trusted members of his little court around him. Good and sturdy men, all; the celebratory feast scheduled to take place two days hence and his other official duties required him to endure less pleasant company, so he would take the opportunity to indulge his own standards of good company. And this particular vineyard didn't just make very promising wine, but it had one of the best views in the whole Southern March.

Forlorn Hall itself, the castle that would make the estate a _proper_ holding, was already almost half-completed after only two and a half years of work. It could not compare to the Eyrie, of course, or even to Riverrun, but it was _his,_ a stout keep four stories high on the end of a low ridge, with a twenty-foot wall sweeping forward from either side to a pair of horseshoe-shaped wall towers flanking the front wall and gatehouse three hundred feet from the keep. The keep had been inspired by that of Heart's Home, but the corner towers had been the fruit of the knowledge of the Essosi masons who were primarily responsible for the design of the castle. It was one of the few castles nearing completion not just among the border lords, but among all the Myrish nobility, for a variety of factors.

The first, of course, was money. Lyn had taken pains to ensure that he profited from Robert's wars, and while some of it had to go to his men to maintain their loyalty, he had been careful to build up a reserve. The second was that Lyn had been raised with the expectation that he would be in a position to either build or at least take over a castle of his own, unlike the younger sons of lesser knights, suddenly-elevated hedge knights, and neglected younger noblemen who made up most of the Myrish peerage. He had known what to do, and more importantly who to retain, right from the start, before the men and materials necessary to make a castle had been made expensive by relative scarcity. Every lord had at least a strongly-built and easily defensible manse now, the royal inspectors and Maester Gordon's Sappers had seen to that, but actual castles were few.

And that, Lyn reflected as he popped a grape into his mouth, left aside the fact of how he did things and who he was. Some of the newly elevated lords had let their new-found authority go to their heads, wielding their power like a barkeep's bludgeon. Quite stupid of them, in Lyn's opinion; even leaving aside the prying eyes of the royal inspectors and the inevitably-resulting ire of the King's Fist, such men were not well-served by their smallfolk unless they were watched. Which could not be done at all times under all conditions, as any fool could have foreseen. A man had to sleep sometime. Other newly elevated noblemen erred too much to the other side of the scales, as if their newly acquired power would break if they pushed it too far. Such men inevitably fell prey to the devices of their smallfolk, or worse those of the town guildsmen and the Lord Lieutenants. In either case, it didn't help matters that the nobility of the Kingdom of Myr clearly held their power on sufferance, not just of the Crown but also, more importantly, of the smallfolk. The former slaves who made up the majority of the Myrish smallfolk accepted their new lords, but only because even they realized that someone had to be empowered to give orders when it was necessary. And also because Robert the Strong, who had broken their chains and made them free, had asked them to do so.

He, on the other hand, he reflected as he took a bite of crumbly cheese, had learned enough from his father to know that the smallfolk had to be governed with neither too heavy or too light a hand. Firm, but not brutal, and above all _consistent_, that was the proper way to rule. Men were much more willing to serve you if they knew with absolute certainty that good service would be rewarded and wrongdoing punished. And every man from the border shepherds to Ceralia knew that Lord Corbray paid fair wages for fair work and was as scrupulous as a priest in his observance of the law.

But more than his methods was his _name_. When his comrades had been hanging bandits on Robert's Progress, he had been taking the war to Tyrosh and Lys. The Great Raid had made his mark as one of the paladins of Holy Freedom, especially here in the southlands where the danger from the slavers was greatest. When he had been confirmed as a lord, as a Lord Lieutenant, and as the Warden of the South, the people had rejoiced at the news; one red priest in Sirmium had reportedly fallen to his knees on the spot and given thanks to the Lord of Light that "the sword and shield of the people" would remain with them.

Whatever the Great Charter had to say about his official rights and powers, the undeniable fact was that the South was _his._ Where other lords had to rely on the Great Charter's provisions for compelling the labor and produce of the smallfolk on behalf of their lords, men went willingly to work on his castle and in his demesne fields and willingly paid his tax. No merchant dared to try and cheat him or even gouge him too harshly; the last one who had tried had been beaten bloody by the onlooking crowd before his men-at-arms had intervened. And while Jaime Lannister's appointment to the Lord Lieutenancy of Alalia might have been a curb on his power, Lyn knew that for all his battlefield courage the Black Lion had a horror of politics. And in three short years Lannister would be gone, regardless, while he would remain and raise an edifice of Corbray power that would last a thousand years.

Lyn raised his glass to a half-heard toast and smiled. If only his father had lived to see it.

Especially since it would have made at least one of his more inconvenient obligations much easier. His father had been most understanding about his preferences, both because he was a middle son and not the heir and because in all other respects, he had been a much more satisfying son for the old man than his half-spined brother. He had even, when Lyn had grown to manhood, introduced him to an old comrade of his, a tourney knight named Ser Mark of the Fords, who had taught Lyn how to sate his appetites while protecting himself from people with unfortunately narrow minds. If he had survived Narrow Run, then in all likelihood Lyn could have chosen some sensible-enough girl from the fishing fleet, married her, and then left her and his father to go about the business of getting Lyn an heir that the world would know as Lyn's son.

Lyn knew that his father would have done it, for the sake of the family name if not his favorite son, but the High Septon had ensnared him in a web of deceit and conflicting loyalties until the only way he could see out of it was death. He didn't begrudge Stark for sparking the battle, the savage's insolence had demanded an answer, but he could not forgive the High Septon for driving his father to seek a valiant death before his time. The odds that he would be able to settle that debt of blood on the man himself were vanishingly small, but he would certainly take every opportunity to poke a stick in his eye. A resolve made all the easier by the fact that Jonothor's new creed actually appealed to him in a way that the Faith had rarely done.

You won the game of thrones by adhering to the standards of good business, Lyn reflected as he raised his glass and one of his courtiers refilled it, but what was the point of playing the game if you couldn't use the prizes to your own ends?

XXX

Robert's secretary Maran knocked softly on the door of his solar and poked his head in. "Ser Gerion Lannister to see Your Grace," he announced quietly.

Robert stood up from his desk gratefully; he was getting better at enduring them, but reports of agricultural yields never failed to bore him. "Send him in, by all means," he said, stretching his fingers as Gerion strode in. "Well, Gerion, what's the news?"

Gerion nodded deeply. "Your Grace wanted me to make inquiries into a certain young lady of the Braavosi embassy," he said with a hint of a smile.

"Ah," Robert said, gesturing awkwardly at the chair opposite his desk and sitting down as Gerion took a seat. "And?"

Gerion steepled his fingers. "Serina Phassos by name," he said, "eldest child and only daughter of the main line of that house, sixteen years of age, and unmarried. Not even betrothed according to Adaran, who is her younger brother, by the by."

Robert frowned slightly. "Sixteen is a little old to be unbetrothed, is it not?" he asked cautiously.

Gerion nodded. "It appears that her father has been having some difficulty finding a match that she will accept," he said, catching the flash of pain that briefly ran across Robert's face. "I must say that my inquiries have found no evidence that would indicate a lack of, shall we say, suitability, on the lady's part," he added delicately. "She is, by all accounts, a most sensible and well-qualified young woman."

Robert nodded acknowledgement. "Phassos," he said slowly. "I don't recall that family being among those in the folder you gave me."

"Because I didn't think that they would be a serious contender," Gerion said with a shrug. "The Phassos are an old house among the Braavosi magisters, and a respectable one, but somewhat fallen from the height of their former powers. The usual story, profligate and careless sons of a great father squandering his fortune and all that." Robert nodded; that sort of story was not uncommon in Westeros. "But to be fair to the Phassos, it has historically been the younger sons and the cadet branches who have been the wastrels," Gerion added. "The main line has always been sound, and astute enough to at least keep the family's head above water. In which they have been helped by knowing when to cut a particularly disastrous family member off without a copper, although they have had to maintain ties to the majority of their relations for the sake of family honor. These days the Phassos are on roughly the same social level as, say, the Morrigens or the Oakhearts or the Lyddens; not the first or even the second rank, but certainly not to be despised."

Robert drummed his fingers on his desk. "And her parents?" he asked.

"Mother deceased for some years, father still alive," Gerion said. "One Ballario by name, aging but still hale according to his son. Well respected by his business partners and his fellow magisters. Shall I open a line of correspondence?"

Robert nodded. "This day, if you please," he said decisively. "I mean to pursue this matter." He smiled wryly. "As soon as I can convince Serina, anyroad."

Gerion nodded. "Adaran tells me that she is the apple of her father's eye," he said. "Enough so that he has allowed her to refuse two respectable offers already. If she refuses to assent, then it is unlikely that Ballario will force her, or so I must conclude from the information available to me."

Robert's smile broadened. "Then I shall simply have to be a greater charmer than ever before, eh?" he said jokingly.

XXX

Serina looked down at the book, her mind a blank of surprise. In and of itself, the book was nothing to deserve such a reaction; it was simply a collection of chivalric ballads from Westeros, inexpensively written and cheaply if sturdily bound in brown leather. What made it astonishing was that it was a gift to her from King Robert. A _courting gift,_ if Ambassadress Antaryon was to be believed.

"You realize, of course, that I will have to report this to the Council of Thirty," she heard the Ambassadress say. "Who King Robert chooses to court is a question of high policy more than anything." She nodded automatically in agreement. "And, of course, your father will have to be informed, and allowed to have his say." Her hands tightened on the book involuntarily. She could already imagine what her father's reaction would be.

"But we will not be hearing from them for at least a month, if not more, so in the meantime the decision of what to do falls to me," the Ambassadress went on briskly. "Now, under ordinary circumstances, I should at the very least take steps to constrain this matter, if not forbid it outright. As you are a legal minor under my authority then until I am informed otherwise, I am empowered to act _in loco parentis_ for you, with all the responsibilities that implies." Serina nodded again. "However, as these are not ordinary circumstances, I shall do _no such thing._"

Serina jerked her head up in astonishment. "I beg your pardon?" she asked, shock making her forget her manners for a moment. "I mean, I beg your pardon, Your Excellency?"

The Ambassadress arched an eyebrow. "You are, of course, aware of your rights and responsibilities as a Braavosi citizen?" she asked archly.

"Yes, but . . ." Serina stammered.

"You are aware of the duty you owe your family?" the Ambassadress plowed on.

"Yes, but . . ." Serina stammered again.

"Then thus far, there is no need for me to intervene," the Ambassadress said serenely. "You have an excellent reputation for sensibility, Miss Phassos, despite your brother's unfortunate intemperance; enough so that I have little fear that you will do something foolish. So instead, I shall simply advise you that, as a question of policy, it would be most advantageous for the Commune if you and King Robert were to wed." Serina's jaw dropped; the Ambassadress arched her eyebrow again. "Do close your mouth, my dear; you look like a surprised fish." Serina's teeth clicked as her mouth slammed shut. "And _think_; in Westeros, it is traditional for the nobility to seal alliances with a marriage, is it not?" At Serina's nod, the Ambassadress spread her hands. "Then I trust you will see that, while we of Braavos might think the alliance to be complete once pen is set to paper, it will not be so to the Kingdom of Myr unless Robert weds a Braavosi citizen. And the higher-placed, the better, from their view. I suppose that ideally, Robert would wed _me_, but given the circumstances I would be unsuitable." This last was delivered in a pawky tone; the Ambassadress was past forty, with her black hair turning iron-grey and her face seamed with faint wrinkles, although you could still see the beauty she had been when she smiled.

As she seemed to be on the verge of doing now, Serina noted as she dragged herself out of shock by main force. "There's another reason, though, isn't there Your Excellency?" she asked cautiously.

The Ambassadress's smile grew. "My dear girl, do you have any idea _how long _it has been since I was the go-between in a courtship?" she asked.

Serina shook her head. "No, Your Excellency," she said with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.

"Nine years," the Ambassadress said, her smile turning wistfully reminiscent. "Too damned long by half, gods witness. A side-effect of my brother becoming the Sealord, you see; people didn't want to get me in trouble accidentally." Serina nodded; the laws governing the proper use of government power and resources, and the penalties they laid down for their misuse, were as stringent as they were numerous. No one, not even the Sealord, was beyond the reach of the Titan's law. "So this is my ruling;" the Ambassadress said sunnily, "you will let King Robert court you with the intention of securing his hand in marriage, I shall assist you, and I for one shall enjoy every minute of it. Although," she added with a gleam in her eye, "I may have to offer him some advice on what constitutes a suitable courting gift. Chivalric ballads? Ha!"

Serina stumbled out of the room a few minutes later, still in a mild daze. She had joined the embassy thinking that she would do whatever duties the Ambassadress gave her and see her brother settled into his exile; she had _not _expected to find herself being courted by possibly the most famous monarch west of Yi-Ti. And to think that only a few months ago she had laughed in her best friend's face for seriously considering such a thing! Moonsingers preserve her if news of this broke among the circle of her friends; the jokes would be unbearable.

Although, she decided later as she lay in bed, it could be worse. At least King Robert was courting her discreetly, and with decent taste. The one ballad she had read from the book, the tale of a young knight who had foresworn his inheritance to serve on the Kingsguard, had been quite good, of its kind. And moreover, King Robert himself was not to be despised as a suitor. By all accounts he was generous, honorable in his dealings, the very picture of Westerosi chivalry. Of a certainty he was far more impressive, and more handsome, than either of the two young men who had previously asked for her hand. She could already see the letter from her father all but begging her to accept King Robert's courtship as the gods-sent gift that it was for their family.

She thumped her head back against the pillow. She loved her father, and hated to disappoint him. But at the same time, she instinctively rebelled against the idea of marrying simply as a question of policy. She knew that at least some consideration of policy was unavoidable, but above all else she wanted at least a measure of the fondness that she had seen in her parents' marriage. And while she had yet to see any evidence that King Robert _wouldn't _be an affectionate husband, she had seen no evidence that he would be, either.

She would, she decided, await such evidence and see what might be seen. The giggles from the other ladies-in-waiting in the embassy would simply have to be endured. And if Adaran made so much as a single joke, she decided, she would slap him on the spot. He had lost the right to make jokes at her expense the minute he put her in this mess.

XXX

The Qohorik scout lay so still that ants crawled over him, as he had done since mid-morning. He had all but stumbled across the Grand Army of Volantis' camp, and only by dropping to the ground and freezing had he escaped detection. The mists around Chroyane were infamously treacherous; dense enough to conceal an army and thick enough to muffle even the sound of fifty thousand men and their beasts.

In order to stave off boredom, that deadliest enemy of the scout and the spy, he reviewed the information he had gleaned from his observations. The Grand Army of Volantis was encamped in a rectangular formation, with the tiger cloaks occupying the northern half and their Unsullied at the southern end. Just back of the midpoint were the Golden Company and the Dragon Company, distinguishable by their banners. They had posted sentries, but closer to the lines of the encampment than was usual; a result of the mists, no doubt, and the half-legendary creatures said to reside within them. The stone men were the most notorious of Chroyane's denizens, but other things were said to live there as well. Wise men did not linger in the mists, but traveled through them as swiftly as possible, with their weapons ready to hand and their eyes scanning the swirling banks of half-opaque vapor.

The scout smiled humorlessly. By that standard, then he was either a fool or a madman, but he was neither. He was Unsullied, specially chosen and trained by his masters to undertake the dangerous work of a scout, and so such petty truisms did not apply to him. He was not as other men. Where other men feared the mists, or found them unsettlingly beautiful, he simply regarded them as an obstacle to be overcome. He had cared nothing for the heat of the day and would care nothing for the coolness of the night. If the stone men found him, then he would fight his way through them, for his purpose was to observe the progress of the Volantene army and report it back to his commander. Fear of all other things, of flood, of fire, of sickness, of maiming and death, of snakes and scorpions and wild beasts, even the fear of Chroyane and the nameless things rumored to dwell within, had been burned out of him by his training, but he still feared to fail in his purpose. He narrowed his eyes minutely. _I will not fail,_ he declared in the recesses of his mind. _Hear me, O Bride of Battles._

The night was falling; soon he would be able to make his report and fulfill his purpose. Another hour, perhaps an hour and a half, he judged, and the light would have fallen enough for him to rise from his hiding place and start the run back to the army.


	65. Chapter 65: Blades in the Mist

_That the Battle of Chroyane developed the way it did is largely due to a combination of politics and accident. Lazaran Ahrah was the scion of one of the most powerful families in Qohor, so when he requested five hundred Unsullied to 'stiffen' his advanced guard, he could not be gracefully denied. And for all the Ahrah's power, Lazaran was an ambitious soul who saw military glory as a good way to accelerate his plans to satisfy that ambition. So when his scouts came across the encampment of the Grand Army of Volantis and reported that not only had they not fortified their camp but that the dispositions of their sentries were faulty, Lazaran saw an opportunity to land a stunning blow on Volantis' main field army . . ._

\- _The Last Sane War: The River War of 287 _by Maester Andrews, published 1066 AC

The attack began quietly. A few scouts slipped out of the darkness and the eddying mists to kill the sentries at the north end of the Volantene camp. Most of them went down quietly enough that no alarm was raised, but one of the scouts, a pirate from Dagger Lake drawn by the promise of gold, fouled up his dagger stroke so that instead of cutting his sentry's throat below the voice box and severing both blood vessels and windpipe all at once, he only managed to open the man's jugular vein and nick his windpipe above the voice box. He killed his man moments later, but not before the sentry managed to drag his hand down far enough to voice a half-strangled shout of alarm.

Not that it strictly mattered, in the end, for the small force that the Qohorik army had sent forward to screen its advance was close enough that only thirty seconds run was enough to put them among the Volantene tents. The first wave of men were sellswords, for the most part; either pirates from Dagger Lake lured by gold or more prosaic mercenaries, put in the front rank for two reasons. Firstly, because they were neither as brave (or as mad, looked at a certain way) or as reliable as the Unsullied. If they had gotten cold feet and attempted to either abscond or simply lie low and unnoticed in the mists, the Unsullied would have found them and prodded them back into the ranks. Secondly, because for all the Unsullied's soldierly virtues they are not the sort of men to use in a wild slashing melee such as is produced when a camp is assaulted by surprise. The strength of the Unsullied is in their inhuman discipline, in their ability to maintain the shield-wall and the spear-hedge in the face of all hazards. If the formation breaks, then they are not insuperably greater or worse than any other breed of warrior, although their immunity to fear and pain certainly gives them an advantage when it comes to handstrokes. So the plan is for the mercenaries to lead the way, spreading chaos and death as they press ever onwards, while the Unsullied follow behind them to reduce any pockets of resistance that remain.

And for the first several minutes the plan works. The tiger cloaks have almost entirely been caught in their beds, and while they had been wearing their gambesons, and some of them their mail-shirts, for nightclothes thanks to being in potentially hostile territory, none of them are wearing armor heavier than that; they have simply snatched up their weapons and stumbled out of their tents, blinking and bleary-eyed, to face wide-eyed men whose suppressed fear has turned to red fury by the onset. So the tiger cloaks reel back, some barely stopping to trade more than a blow with the Qohorik soldiers before running southward as fast as their feet can carry them, while behind them the sellswords pursue them with whooping hunting calls and the Unsullied tramp forward in grim silence. Many tiger cloaks die in the first minutes of the battle, cut down as they try to fight back, and many more take to their heels, spreading the chaos of the onset as they go.

But the tiger cloaks were not the only soldiers that Volantis had on the field of Chroyane, nor were they even the best. And the time it had taken the Qohori to cut through the tiger cloaks had been time that those soldiers had been given to prepare . . .

XXX

Ser Arthur Dayne, fully armored and with Dawn held by the blade in his left fist, strode out of the tent he shared with King Viserys and his two sworn brothers to behold a mixed vision. On the one hand, the tiger cloaks appeared to have stampeded, and streams of them were flowing southward only partially channeled by the rows of tents. On the other hand, the Dragon Company appeared to be standing fast; the quarter guard had sounded the alarm at the first sound of battle in the tiger cloaks' part of the encampment and the ruin of the tiger cloaks had taken enough time that the men of the company had been able to get at least most of their armor on before the underofficers had bellowed them into ranks. Now they were standing in line facing northward, their shields braced and their spears lowered, ready to at least exchange blows with whatever came out of the mists.

Arthur turned to his squire. "Beleqor, ride over to the Golden Company," he said, injecting calm into his voice in the hopes that it would prove infectious, "don't bother going on foot, you won't make it across the flow of that herd." He gestured at the retreating tiger cloaks. "Find Ser Myles Toyne, tell him we are holding the right third of the width of the encampment and can keep on holding it if he holds the center and the left. Then find General Maegyr and tell him that we are holding the line but that we need reinforcements with some urgency. I recommend he sends the Unsullied up as quickly as he may."

"Yes, ser," Beleqor said, his voice calm but his eyes still staring a bit as he clapped a fist to the front of his brigandine in salute and strode toward his horse. Arthur took a moment to wish him luck, Beleqor was a good lad and a good squire, and then turned to his king, who had come striding out of the tent flanked by Ser Barristan and Ser Garin. "Your Grace," he said with a quick dip of the knee, "I recommend that we hold our position here and defend ourselves as best we may. At need we can refuse our flanks on either side and form a square, and then we will be all but impervious to assault."

Viserys, looking unexpectedly martial in his boy-sized brigandine, nodded. "Let it be so, then," he said calmly. "Plant my banner there," he pointed to the center of the company's line. "I would let whoever is attacking us know who they are fighting."

Arthur nodded. "As you command, Your Grace," he said, before nodding to Ser Garin, who unfurled the dragon banner as he and his brothers accompanied their king forward and planted it behind the second rank. Men cheered to see the three-headed dragon by torchlight, and Arthur could feel the company's ranks stiffen.

"Here they come!" yelled a voice on the left, towards the center of the camp, and peering through the mist Arthur could see the glint of firelight on bloodied steel; it was a very distinctive glint, and not one easily forgotten. "Crossbows!" Arthur roared, the unmistakable tone of command in his voice bringing fifteen hundred crossbows to port arms. "Make ready!" The crossbowmen fingered their bolts to make sure they were properly nocked against the strings. "Level!" The crossbowmen brought their crossbows to the horizontal; if they had been told to aim they would have picked individual targets, but being told to level meant that that they were not to bother aiming more than necessary to keep from shooting a comrade in the back. "Loose!"

There was a rippling manifold 'tung-snap' as the crossbows loosed into the fire-shot blackness, followed by a wave of screams as the bolts struck home. A fair percentage of them had probably struck fleeing tiger cloaks, but that was unavoidable in this situation. And Arthur's responsibility was to protect his men and keep them from being overrun too; the best way to do that was to shoot flat everyone who approached his lines that wasn't verifiably friendly. The crossbowmen bent to the work of reloading as the underofficers stalked the ranks barking reassurance. Arthur, for his part, simply took Dawn's hilt in his right hand and stood at rest with the greatsword held low across his armored thighs; for the moment there was nothing for him to do except project an image of icy self-assurance. Fear might be catching, like sickness, but so was confidence. He flicked a glance at Viserys; the young king was visibly excited, but controlling it as well as an eleven-year-old boy could be expected to. He nodded slightly in approval as Viserys caught his eye and was rewarded with a smile.

A flicker of movement on the other side of Viserys, past where Ser Barristan was standing at his right hand, caught Arthur's eye, and when he turned his attention to it his lip curled involuntarily. Greel and his cabal were standing there, robed and hooded, their hands linked in an outward-facing circle. He could see Greel's mouth moving rhythmically, but couldn't hear what the warlock was saying over the clamor of the battle. Nonetheless the mere sight of the warlock and his cronies evidently at work made the hairs on his arms crawl, even under his arming doublet and arm harness.

"Ser Arthur!" came a shout from his left, and he turned to see Ser Clarence Webber riding towards him on a prancing courser with his hand raised in greeting. Arthur returned the gesture, narrowing his eyes as Ser Clarence reined in in front of the command group; it was hard to tell in this light but he could _swear _that he saw a gleam of pomade in the eastern knight's goatee. Aplomb was all well and good, but there were _limits, surely._ "And His Grace as well, I see," Ser Clarence cried, bowing in the saddle to Viserys. "Good morning, Your Grace. I could have wished that we might have met under more auspicious circumstances."

Viserys nodded. "Yes, yes," he said, flushing as Ser Barristan raised an eyebrow at his impatient tone and raising his voice over the screams as the crossbowmen loosed again. "We take it you have news, ser knight?"

"Indeed, Your Grace," Ser Clarence replied. "I just crossed paths with Ser Arthur's squire. It seems great minds think alike; Captain-General Toyne had already sent two of our bandas to extend our line to meet yours. Our spearmen are not a minute behind me, I believe." He turned in the saddle. "Ah, there they are now!" he exclaimed, pointing at a hedge of spearpoints that was forging its way through the stream of fleeing men. "With any luck, we should be able to get this unsightly mess into some kind of order."

Viserys nodded. "With the grace of the gods and your help, sers, I doubt it not," he said. "Ser Arthur," Arthur knelt, "cooperate fully with Captain-General Toyne in the fighting of this battle. I would not have even one of these unmannered dogs who disturbed our sleep get away."

Arthur ducked his head, having caught the wink Viserys had tipped towards Ser Barristan. "I shall do my utmost to make it so, Your Grace," he said as the crossbowmen loosed their third volley.

XXX

Garello Maegyr reined in his horse and folded his gauntleted hands on the pommel as he looked down on the tiger cloaks. They had stopped running, finally, once they realized that no one was chasing them anymore and they were among friends still. Now their fear was turning into sullenness, and they were starting to mutter among themselves. Garello grinned. _Perfect_.

"Why, my boys, I am surprised at you!" he exclaimed, making heads turn. "All the way here, you tell me, _assure _me, even, that you will drive the Qohori like whipped dogs. And now in the first battle it is _you_ who are driven! How on earth am I to explain this to the Triarchs?"

"That we were surprised in our beds, master general," shouted one bearded stalwart near him, the tiger stripes on his cheeks damp with tears of frustration. "That the enemy did not give us a chance to fight!"

Garello raised a hand. "It is true, they did not," he allowed. "But are you not soldiers? Have you no weapons? Have you not had the chance to catch your breath and awaken?" He gestured northward towards where the Golden and Dragon Companies were locked in battle with the Qohori. "Have not your fellow soldiers given you the chance to fight, and prove yourselves?"

That, as he had thought it might, did it. The tiger cloaks brandished their weapons high with a shout of fury; cries of "We are ready, master!" and "Let us fight!" broke through the brabble, which was quickly overridden by the wordless coughing roar that was the traditional battle cry of the tiger cloaks.

Garello spread his hands. "Far be it from me to refuse you, O Claws of Volantis!" he cried, eliciting a shout at his use of one of the old names for the tiger cloaks. "Go forth then and fight!" He pointed to the fighting again. "The enemy's that way!"

The roar of the tiger cloaks made his horse shift nervously in place as they streamed past him, brandishing spear and sword. Garello sighed regretfully; he hated to do this to good troops, he really did, but orders were orders. And as a dutiful son of the First Daughter of Valyria, he would obey his orders in full. It was how he was able to justify being given this command, when he was barely forty.

He shrugged slightly to himself. At least the tiger cloaks were being willing accomplices.

XXX

"Stand, you dogs!" Lazaran Ahrah roared, laying about him with his riding whip. "Stand fast, damn you! Rally to me!"

The sellswords streamed past him, heedless of either his words or the blows he rained on their heads. Lazaran redoubled his efforts, fear lending power to his arm. Damn it, he had had the battle in the bag! The Volantenes were stampeded, screaming that the monsters of the mists were upon them, meat on the chopping block for his men. But then he had fallen victim to success; even six hundred men take time to cut their way through a crowd of twenty thousand. And he had been able to rely on somewhat less than six hundred, as men were distracted from the pursuit by the opportunity to plunder. His Unsullied had driven them on when they caught up to them, but the damage had been done.

Those damned sellswords the Volantenes had! It was just their luck to be able to retain both the Golden Company _and_ the Dragon Company without them killing each other. Lazaran had hoped that the enmity between the Targaryens and the heirs of Bittersteel and the Blackfyres would have kept them from cooperating, but apparently they had patched up their differences enough to able to fight side by side. The line they had formed had stopped his sellswords in their tracks, and by the time he had brought his Unsullied to the front, the Volantene tiger cloaks had reformed enough to counter-charge.

His Unsullied had stood like the rocks they were, of course, but his sellswords, who had felt their easy victory slipping away from them, had broken like a vase thrown against a wall. The tide of fleeing men had borne him back as well, his horse whinnying nervously as it back-stepped under the pressure of the stream of bodies. Now they were right back where the attack had started, at the northern edge of the Volantene encampment, and the sellswords were streaming away into the mist, deaf to all of his entreaties.

Lazaran aimed a last mighty swing at the head of a slow-running sellsword, missed, hit his horse instead, and went flying as the animal, frightened beyond the capacity of its nerves, put its head down and its hindquarters up. When he got his breath back half a minute later, he was lying flat on his back on the ground, with neither his horse nor his soldiers anywhere to be seen. He staggered to his feet, spat a last obscenity in the direction of the Volantenes, and walked stiff-legged into the mists.

XXX

"I thank you, Ser Arthur, Captain-General Toyne, but the situation is well in hand," Garello Maegyr said calmly, gesturing at the last Qohorik force left on the field. "As you can see, the tiger cloaks have claimed the honor of eliminating the last of the enemy."

A hundred yards away, the Qohori Unsullied were standing in a shield-ring, their tall rectangular shields forming a circular wall tipped with a hedge of spear-points. The tiger cloaks had surrounded them and were trying furiously to break into the ring, hacking at the shields with spear and sword and axe as the Unsullied sent them reeling back with short, punching thrusts of their spears and shortswords.

"I can see, indeed," Arthur said dubiously, "but what I can't see is the point of fighting on. Why not summon them to surrender?"

Garello gave him a half-smile. "My dear Ser Arthur, you would not ask a blind man to look at a painting, would you? Or ask a deaf man to listen to music?"

Arthur shook his head. "Of course not. What would be the point?

"None," Garello said. "Just as there is no point in asking these Unsullied to surrender. You see how there are no officer's pennants among them?" At Arthur's nod he went on. "That means that they have no one among them that is able to make them surrender. And they will not surrender of their own accord; they do not have the freedom of will to allow it."

Ser Myles Toyne nodded. "I've fought Unsullied before now," he said, "and I agree with the general; Unsullied don't surrender unless an officer orders them to. If these Unsullied don't have officers, then the only thing to do is kill them all."

Arthur grimaced. "I see," he said unwillingly. "In that case, shall I bring up my crossbowmen? It would be easier to shoot them down than to try and kill them all by hand."

"I quite agree," Garello said, "but that would require me to call off the tiger cloaks, and that I will not do, either. They have lost their honor by allowing themselves to be surprised and put to flight; they have the right to reclaim it if they are able. Eliminating this last infestation of the enemy should do nicely for that purpose."

Ser Myles arched an eyebrow. "And what happens if the Unsullied repulse them?" he asked curiously.

Garello looked down at him with a blankly pleasant expression on his aristocratic face. "Then they will simply have to try again, won't they?" he said lightly.

Ser Myles opened his mouth, either to protest or simply to comment, but Arthur forestalled him by kicking him lightly in the ankle. At the Captain-General's look of mildly indignant surprise he returned a steady gaze and a slight shake of his head; he was remembering a certain conversation he had had with Donys shortly before the Grand Army marched, one held on the end of an empty dock for fear of Triarchal spies. "I see," Ser Myles said finally, his voice flatly professional. "With your permission, my lord, I would see to my men."

Garello waved a hand. "By all means, Captain-General," he said pleasantly. "Ser Arthur, you may go as well; we will have no further need of your company tonight, I think."

Arthur bowed, as did Ser Myles, and the two of them turned away and started walking back towards their men. A few paces later Ser Myles thumped a gauntleted fist into his palm. "He's murdering those men," he whispered, his tone savage. "Gods witness, he might as well cut their throats himself."

"I know," Arthur replied soothingly. "I was told something like this might happen." At Ser Myles' outraged look he elbowed the man sharply; more of a gesture than anything, since they were both in armor. "_Think_, man; the tiger cloaks are slaves, are they not?" When Ser Myles nodded, he plowed on. "And Robert Baratheon of Myr has sworn to liberate every slave in Essos, has he not? So, if Robert were ever to declare war on Volantis and promise freedom to every slave that joined his banner . . ."

Ser Myles's jaw dropped for a moment, then closed with a click of teeth as a considering look stole over his face. "I see," he finally said, as flatly as he had spoken to Garello. "And the Triarchs can't simply disband the tiger cloaks."

"Not without losing the ability to give them orders," Arthur said, nodding. "Orders like this one." He jerked a thumb to where the tiger cloaks had recoiled from the ring of shields; their underofficers were stalking up and down the ranks exhorting the men into a fresh frenzy. Already the stripe-tattooed slave soldiers were baying like so many hounds scenting blood. Arthur could see one biting the rim of his shield.

Ser Myles nodded. "Indeed," he said pensively. "I was wondering why so many of the soldiers in this army were tiger cloaks." He paused. "But would the tiger cloaks have revolted?" he asked. "There are slaves and there are slaves, after all. It's a rare slave indeed that gets to bear arms openly and enforce the law even on freeborn citizens."

Arthur shrugged. "Franlan the Foreman was a privileged slave, as well," he pointed out. "And yet he led the revolt of the Myrish slaves, and has risen to high office thanks to his betrayal."

Ser Myles nodded unwillingly. "True, that," he agreed, stroking his beard. He hesitated, and then forged on. "Given, _this_," he gestured to where the tiger cloaks were surging forward again with a shout of blood-lust, "I think it would be wise if we kept each other informed of any inklings we might have that the Triarchs may be losing their trust in us. I would not have my company be placed in a situation such as this."

Arthur nodded back. "Agreed," he said softly. "Red or black, dragons should fly together in hostile skies."

Ser Myles smiled painfully. "Bittersteel's ghost just might come back from the grave and strangle me for this," he said ruefully as he stripped off his gauntlet and offered Arthur his hand, "but I'll take my chances." Arthur shucked off his own gauntlet and clasped the Captain-General's wrist in a warrior's handshake.

XXX

Lazaran Ahrah cursed as he stumbled blindly through the mists. For hours now, it seemed, he had walked away from the Volantene encampment where his ambitions had foundered on the rock of those hell-damned sellswords. Every so often he called out, hoping to come across one of his men, but he had never heard a reply, save for bird-calls. His ribs ached abominably from his fall, his hips and shoulders were sore almost to bloodiness from the chafing of his cuirass, and he was tormented more and more by thirst.

A splash and a sudden wetness in his boots made him stop in his tracks and look down; he was standing in water over the tops of his feet. "Goat's balls," he swore, "have I walked into the river?"

_"__Yes."_

Lazaran's sword flew out it's sheath as he spun wildly, eyes raking the mists for the source of the voice. "Who is there?" he demanded.

_"__One who gave you warning," _said the bone-dry, rasping voice, _"__not to try and cross these lands without leave."_

Lazaran glared about him. He remembered the scroll that had landed on his desk the day before he had ordered his force into the mists, warning him to pay the Shrouded Lord's toll if he wanted to pass in peace. He had consigned it to his brazier unanswered, of course; he was not a child to pay heed to nursery tales. "Are you really?" he asked, a snarl creeping into his voice. "Then why don't you come out and make me pay for my transgression?"

_"__We will," _the voice said, and a sudden gust parted the mists to reveal a line of stone men along the bank. Their horribly crusted skin glistened in the wan light, their blank eyes regarded Lazaran dully, and they carried crude knives of chipped stone in their calcified hands.

Lazaran knew fear for a moment, then he surveyed his adversaries again and laughed. He was still strong, and his armor that had formerly weighed on him like a felon's crimes was now only a reassuring heaviness around his torso, and his sword was long and sharp, a masterpiece of Qohorik blade-smithing and so by definition one of the finest blades in the world. "You must think very little of me, to send so few men with such poor weapons to take my head," he said loudly, injecting scorn into his voice as he whipped his sword through a wrist-loosening figure-eight and prepared to sell his life dearly.

_"__Who said anything about taking heads?" _the voice asked amid a rush of water and Lazaran knew with a blood-freezing rush of fear that the owner of the voice _was right behind him_.

He spun, his sword rising up and then descending in a cut that would have decapitated an ox and he had just enough time to see it shatter on a stony head before a terrible force seized him by the throat and lifted him off his feet. _"__Your men were right to fear the mists," _the voice said, and then he was flying through the air to land on the bank. The impact knocked him unconscious so that he did not struggle as the stone men took him. He awoke, some time later, long enough to see the fire and the rack and the stone men leaning over him with their knives before his mind broke and he began screaming incoherently and thrashing like a mad thing in a trap.

One of the stone men, annoyed that Lazaran's thrashing had fouled his cut, dazed him with a blow to the temple from a stony fist. The blow was hard enough to break a blood vessel in Lazaran's brain, and thus fatal, but not nearly as quickly as Lazaran wished by then.

_The Battle of Chroyane, called the Battle of the Mists by those who fought it, was a mixed victory for the Volantenes. On the one hand, the Qohorik advance force was effectively destroyed; every one of the five hundred Unsullied was killed, and of the six hundred sellswords barely a hundred escaped the mists. On the other hand, the Unsullied did not die alone. While casualties in the Dragon and Golden Companies were light, the tiger cloaks suffered two thousand dead and three times as many seriously wounded or missing. Most of the dead were suffered attacking the Unsullied; eyewitness accounts generally agree that the tiger cloaks had to climb over a berm of dead and wounded two and three deep to overwhelm the last of the Unsullied._

_Maegyr wasted little time; as soon as the dead were buried and the wounded shipped downriver to Volantis, the Grand Army marched northward again . . ._

\- _The Last Sane War: The River War of 287 _by Maester Andrews, published 1066 AC


	66. Chapter 66: Rumblings

**Meanwhile, in Westeros . . .**

_Stannis' attempt to rebuild the royal fleet for the second time in three years was greatly eased by the High Septon's granting of the right to tax a tenth of the Faith's revenue, but support for the project remained relatively limited. Although it was recognized that the honor of the Baratheon dynasty, and so the honor of Westeros as a whole, was at stake, the perception that the fleet which had been raised at so much expense had been wasted persisted, especially in areas where the Iron Throne's hand lay lightly. Resistance to the new taxes was fiercest on Crackclaw Point, where discontent at the attainder of the indigenous nobility was aggravated by the attempts of the foreign (primarily Stormlander) New Nobles who replaced them to collect the new taxes. A month after the new tax was declared, a coalition of Crackclaw gentry headed by Lord Carsen Boggs, Lord Morgan Cave, and Lord Conin Pyne sent a message to King's Landing declaring their refusal to allow the new tax to be collected in their territory; as a gesture of their earnestness they flogged the heralds who had been sent to them to proclaim the new taxes._

_Stannis' response was immediate . . ._

\- _Stag at Bay: The Wars of Stannis the Grim_ by Maester Pherson, published 1498 AC

_The following is an excerpt from _Flash on the High Seas_, the third installment in the Flash Papers by George Dand._

Of course, His Nibs couldn't let the Crackclaws bid him defiance and let them get away with it. If you let your vassals thumb their nose at you, then sooner or later it leads to civil war when they work up the balls for it. Kings like to avoid that sort of thing when they can; it's very bad for business. Fortunately, the New Nobles were still in Stannis' pocket (Gods witness _I_ was) and so he was able to whistle up an army on short notice and march it into Crackclaw Point, where the first stop was Pyneton, the seat of House Pyne.

Stannis' plan, as he told us, was to march the army up to the gates of the castle, catapults and battering rams in full view, and demand that the gates be opened and the tax paid. If the rebels accepted, all well and good. If they didn't, well, they should have known better than to try and resist a royal army. As plans went, it had the virtue of being simple. The problem was that the rebels had known Stannis was coming and had assembled their forces at Pyneton. I don't know what they hoped to accomplish, since they didn't have more than four or five hundred spears between them, with maybe a tenth of those being men-at-arms, much less knights, but there they were, drawn up in array, facing off against ten times their number. If we didn't outnumber them in men-at-arms alone, we came pretty damned close.

I've been told since, and looking back I can believe it, that the rebels hadn't expected a confrontation. They had spent so much time telling each other that Stannis had lost his balls at the Battle of Tyrosh that they had believed it; they had expected him to either try to negotiate or even fold up completely. The one thing they hadn't expected, or seriously planned for, was for Stannis to call their bluff. Now that he had, they were in quite the vise. On the one hand, they could see as well as anyone just how bad the odds against them were, and they knew that the traditional punishment for rebels taken in arms was death not long delayed. On the other hand, they couldn't simply back down, however much they wanted to. Not only was it a matter of honor, but the most powerful man among them, Lord Carsen Boggs, wouldn't hear of surrender. He knew his rights, by the gods, and he would have them, even from Stannis. Nor would he let it be said that he was a coward, to bend the knee like a whipped cur. Now, I know the importance of having a good reputation as well as anyone, and I think he was full of shit. A blind man could have seen that he and his didn't have the proverbial snowball's chance in the Seven Hells, and there was no dishonor in bending the knee to your lawful king, anyway.

Of course, the whole affair was an exercise in collective idiocy of the first water. I blame the Crackclaw lords, myself; the silly buggers had stayed away from King's Landing in some sort of protest at their neighbors' dispossession, with the result that they hadn't learned what Stannis was like. The Masseys, now, might have been boot-lickers of the highest order, but they at least had learned to stay in Stannis' good graces and avoid his displeasure like grayscale. The Crackclaws, on the other hand, had thought they had learned all they needed to know about Stannis from their neighbors getting attainted and his policies since. They hadn't seen him put Marq Grafton in his place, like I had; if they had, they wouldn't have dared raise their voice to him. But they hadn't, so there we were.

What happened at the parley I blame on two things. The first is Stannis himself; unchivalrous of me, perhaps, but he really should have known better, despite my reputation. The second is the fact that my valet had gotten his hands on some quite good Tyroshi brandy the day before and I had overindulged that night. Consequently, when it came time for the parley, I had one of the worst hangovers I have ever experienced. Ordinarily, this would not have been a problem, as all I was supposed to do was sit my horse at Stannis' side and look the part of my reputation; I wasn't a Stormguard, but I had a reputation as a budding version of Ser Barristan Selmy, so I had been added to the party to help Ser Cortnay Penrose represent Stannis' mailed fist. But when Lord Boggs said something particularly asinine, I'm not sure what, I was that hungover, I said something uncomplimentary in return.

Again, I'm not sure what I said, but whatever it was, Lord Boggs demanded satisfaction. And Stannis took his side; I can only imagine that he was sufficiently embarrassed that his own man had been so rude that he was minded to let me be taught a lesson. Ordinarily Stannis didn't care much for the fine points of social proprieties, but when he took them seriously he could be positively fierce. Especially when it was a case of someone's conduct reflecting on him. Which was how the duel that you've doubtless heard about came to pass; my hangover, Lord Boggs' pride, and Stannis' sense of propriety.

The duel was the usual thing in such cases; one pass with war lances, and then combat on foot until first blood or submission. By the time things had been arranged and set in motion, I had recovered enough to know just how deeply I was in it and my heart was down in my sabatons. I couldn't withdraw the insult; apologize to a declared rebel, or the next thing to one? It just wouldn't do. If I lost, then like as not Lord Boggs would claim the blessing of the gods on his cause against the king, the Crackclaw rebels would be emboldened, our army would be disheartened, Stannis would be hideously embarrassed, and it would _all be my fault_. The only real course of action in that case would be to catch the next ship to Myr and arrange to find a heroic death, because the shame would be too much to bear. Especially for someone like me; when your reputation is all you have, and especially if it's undeserved, then losing it is the worst thing in the world.

Fortunately, the reflexes my father's master-at-arms had beaten into me kicked in; when the trumpet blew my spurs went back more or less of their own accord and my lance drifted downward to lock under my arm. I may be a slothful soul with a windy streak a mile long who much prefers a good bottle and a lusty wench to a joust or a melee, but I can ride anything with legs and with a lance in my hand I can hold my own against anyone. And there was really no option for me but to win or die in the attempt, given the consequences of losing, so I leaned forward in the saddle, rammed my feet into the stirrups, and went across that patch of ground like a steel avalanche.

Lord Boggs might have been a decent jouster, but even with me hungover he wasn't in my league; he hit my shield all right, but my old master-of-arms hit me harder when I was first learning to joust. My lance, on the other hand, went _through _his shield and hit him squarely under the bevor; it must have been a cheap shield. In any case when I reined in my horse and turned him around to dismount Lord Boggs was lying flat on his back in the dirt, not moving so much as a finger. When his second rushed out to help him, he discovered that Boggs' neck had broken, either from the strike of my lance or from simply hitting the ground wrong.

Of course, the other rebels gave up that same day, once Stannis granted an amnesty conditional on their future obedience; there might be clearer signs that the gods don't favor your cause, but you can't expect to get them. Within a month the Crackclaws had scraped up several thousand gold dragons as an advance on the Faith-tax, Stannis pronounced himself satisfied, and the army was sent home. I had gone home earlier; I wasn't _technically _in disfavor with Stannis, but I had still provoked a duel that had ended in a death. That sort of thing just couldn't be allowed to pass unremarked, never mind that it had effectively ended the rebellion. And Lord Boggs had been a popular sort for a lord, enough so that it wasn't out of the question that one of his men would try to cut my throat. All things considered, it was considered best that I go somewhere where I could be out of sight and out of mind for a few months.

Not that I strictly minded; it's never good to be on the outs with your liege-lord, but I hadn't liked Crackclaw Point. Take a population of Dornishmen and put them somewhere with rain, heavily forested hills, and unmarked bogs waiting to trap you in mud, and you have Crackclaw Point. The weather is ghastly, the people sullen and unsightly, the drink is unspeakable, and the food wretched (hardly a decent beefsteak to be found in the whole place). So when I was told that I was to take ship for Braavos as military observer and general functionary, I actually took it as a turn of good fortune; the weather might be unpredictable, but you can find _anything _in Braavos to suit your fancy, so long as your tastes don't include slavery, which mine don't. If only I had known what I was getting into . . .

XXX

Ser Rickon Riverbend's sword caught the light of the sept's candles as he lowered it onto his squire's right shoulder. "In the Name of the Father," he intoned, "I charge you to act justly. In the Name of the Mother," he moved his sword to his squire's left shoulder, "I charge you to temper your actions with mercy. In the Name of the Warrior," back to the right shoulder, "I charge you to be valiant in the face of all dangers. In the Name of the Maiden," back to the left shoulder, "I charge you to defend the innocent. In the Name of the Smith," back to the right shoulder, "I charge you to be truthful in all your dealings. In the Name of the Crone," back to the left shoulder, "I charge you to honor wisdom." He raised his sword to the salute and then sheathed it with a whisper of steel on leather-covered wood. "Rise, Ser Sandor Clegane, and let me be the first to welcome you to the brotherhood of chivalry."

Ser Sandor rose with a slight clatter of armor and accepted Rickon's embrace roughly. "Wouldn't have taken it from anyone else, ser," he whispered, his voice even hoarser than usual. "Thank you."

Rickon clapped him on the backplate, a more symbolic gesture than anything. "My pleasure to do so, _Ser _Sandor," he whispered back as he loosened his embrace. As Sandor stepped back to exchange hand-clasps with the small crowd of Order knights, squires, and auxiliaries who had come to see their Marshal's squire knighted, he turned and shook hands with Ser Trebor Jordayne, the Order's Master. "Thank you for coming, ser," he said softly, letting the rising brabble of congratulations drown his words out of any ears but Ser Trebor's.

"Oh, it was my pleasure," the Dornish knight replied with a beaming smile. "Your first knighted squire; congratulations. And may you have many more."

"With luck and the goodwill of the gods," Rickon said turning back to look at his former squire. "Although hopefully they will go by their actual names. I understand the reasoning, but even so . . ." He grimaced, hating the slight whine that had entered his voice. He hadn't known until yesterday morning that his squire Tytos Hill was in fact one Sandor Clegane, the younger brother of Gregor the Mountain of famous (or notorious depending on your sympathies) memory. Aside from having been played for a fool, which he by no means appreciated, at least part of his bond with his squire had been predicated on fellow feeling between two bastards making their way up the ladder of polite society the hard way. To have that bond betrayed, even if it had been unwillingly done on Sandor's part, was hard to bear.

Ser Trebor shrugged as only a Dornishman could shrug. "There was nothing else for it," he said, leaving unsaid what Rickon had known already; that for Sandor to go by his actual name in Dorne would have meant his death sooner or later. As it was, he would only be in Dorne for another ten hours before his ship sailed for King's Landing on the morning tide. "I will get you a new squire as soon as may be, old friend," he went on. "The gods know you will need the help, with the new order the King has sent down."

Rickon cocked an eyebrow. "New order?" he asked.

Ser Trebor nodded. "Well, two new orders, to be precise. The first is to redouble our vigilance against possible rebels, as unlikely as that is at the moment." Rickon gestured agreement; Dorne might be the hottest of the Seven Kingdoms, both literally and metaphorically, but the rumors of potential rebellion were as low as they'd been since the fall of the Targaryens. "The second is to keep an eye out for any possible signs of heresy, especially along the lines of Septon Jonothor's new doctrine. Any we find are to be noted and reported on to King's Landing."

Rickon frowned. "We've never concerned ourselves with heresy before," he said dubiously. "And sniffing out heretics is the Faith's bailiwick, surely?"

"Not anymore, or at least not exclusively," Ser Trebor said with another Dornish shrug. "I imagine that this has something to do with the new Faith-tax we are meant to help collect. Scratch my back and I'll scratch yours, yes?"

Rickon made a slight face. "In that case, we would have to report ourselves, would we not?" he asked wryly. "Forgive me, ser, but to my eyes, the layout of this sept is still uncomfortably strange at times." A gesture took in the sept that was the chapel of the Order. It was a pentagon with the statues of the Seven paired off two to each wall, with the Stranger standing alone against one wall and the double doors set in another. The statues of the gods, rather than being carved from marble or alabaster or onyx as they often were in the northern kingdoms, were carved from wood and then vibrantly painted, enough so that they seemed almost life-like in a way. In the alcove behind each statue there was a painted silk banner showing some scene from the _Seven-Pointed Star_ depicting the god in question, while before each altar there was a silver basin filled with blessed water on a small stand for use by worshippers. In the Riverlands, for example, a septry would be a seven-sided structure, with each god having it's individual altar, the statues of the gods would be carved from stone if the septry was rich enough, the banners would be woven instead of painted, and there would be only one, much larger, basin of blessed water at the entrance to the septry.

Ser Trebor laughed. "Oh, the Most Devout have known about our little variations on the Faith's doctrines these many years," he said merrily, "and they have largely given up on trying to correct them. You see, ser, in Daeron the Good's time the High Septon gave the Principality a dispensation to continue our old-accustomed practices, both as part of declaring the supremacy of Dornish law within Dorne and to bring the Faith's view of us in line with other places where local practice differed slightly from the Most Devout's strictures. At least insofar as those differences were the result of practical difficulties in following doctrine to the last jot and tittle, or quirks of time and place and people, and not serious errors." Rickon nodded understanding. In a land as broad and diverse as Westeros, he supposed, it would be asking a bit much that Divine Office be carried out in exactly the same way in every place under all circumstances. The liturgy did provide a common base of practice, and should be followed to the letter, but some variation from kingdom to kingdom was not entirely to be unexpected.

"In any case," Ser Trebor went on, waving a hand airily, "I think it unlikely that any substantial heresy should take root here; we are a proud people, and do not change our ways easily. And while the usual suspects might otherwise be tempted to spite the Iron Throne, none of them would touch Jonothor's new doctrine with an eighteen-foot pike. They hate the Baratheons only slightly less than they hate the Lannisters, enough so that they would never follow a doctrine promulgated by Robert the Brief's favorite septon."

Rickon nodded. "Doubtless it will be much as you say," he said, "but I'll tell our agents in Planky Town to keep their ears to the ground; trouble of this sort tends to brew faster in cities, or so I am told. When I was visiting the Yronwood commandery I heard that there was trouble in Gulltown about septons preaching some new doctrine. Not Jonothor's, but something else; the rumors were inconsistent."

Ser Trebor gestured easily. "Whatever you think necessary, my good Marshal," he said lightly, "although I would encourage you not to lose too much sleep. It would be a rare septon indeed who would risk the wrath of the Arryns. And speaking of septons," his eyes twinkled merrily, "did you hear that Tywin Lannister had sent his son Tyrion, you know, the dwarf, to the Faith?"

Rickon blinked. "I had not," he said, surprised. "And the Faith took him?"

"Well, they wouldn't say no to _Tywin Lannister_, would they?" Ser Trebor said, chuckling. "Can you imagine _anyone_ doing so?"

Rickon laughed ruefully. "No one but King Stannis," he allowed.

"True, that," Ser Trebor said, reining in his chortles. "If anyone would have the stones to do it, he would. I can hear him now." He straightened, put a stern look on his face, and lowered his voice to a fair approximation of Stannis' baritone. "'I will not let the Most Devout be insulted by having to accept a dwarf in their ranks, my lord.' And you just know that Tywin would accept nothing less from any son of his." At Rickon's nod he dropped the act. "At any rate, I'll offer my congratulations to Ser Sandor and then seek my bed; there's a certain widow who's grown quite fond of me over the past few sennights. Or fond of my money and my wit, anyway, which amounts to the same thing in the end."

"Will you not stay for supper?" Rickon asked. "The kitchens are putting on a small feast for us, whole roast lamb and all."

Ser Trebor shook his head. "No, I'll let the men relax and enjoy themselves," he said generously. "If I were there, they'd be on their best behavior all night and Ser Sandor deserves a proper celebration. Good evening, ser."

XXX

The Greatjon nodded sagely. "Aye, 'tis a hard life," he said to the young lordlings who had crowded around the table where he was telling tales of the Kingdom of Myr and the life of its warriors, "needing skill and strength and hardihood and the favor of the gods, but tell me this, lads. Which would you rather have: a year of sitting in your father's hall listening to him jaw about the good old days and waiting for him to die so you can inherit, or a single day on a stricken field with the wind at your back, a good warhorse between your legs, your sword-brothers at your side, and the horns sounding the charge?" He paused to take a gulp from his beer-filled tankard.

"And if ye live," he went on, wiping foam from his moustache and beard with his sleeve, "then fame and fortune are both yours for the asking, so they are. One hundred acres with twenty smallfolk families to work them, that's the smallest fief King Robert will grant a man-at-arms willing to put his hands between his and swear him fealty, and there are many with more than that. Ser Wendel Manderly was a second son who didn't bid fair to inherit much of anything, and see him now! Six hundred acres of fat farmland bordering the royal demesne, and more besides; a great manse in Myr city with sixty rooms, rights of pasturage and venery in the countryside, an interest in a third of the trading ships that enter Myr's harbor, and a high office in King Robert's government. The very Master of Coin he is, now!"

The lordlings gathered around his table buzzed with excitement. All else aside the words _six hundred acres of fat farmland_ had stuck in their ears. Six hundred acres might be a moderate lordship in the North, but with the soil so unproductive fiefs needed to be large in order to compensate. Six hundred acres of the proverbially fertile farmland of southwestern Essos, however . . . That wasn't _quite _wealth beyond their wildest dreams, but it was close.

"And that's only what King Robert will give ye," said the Greatjon, a smile of predatory reminiscence stealing across his face. "Essos is _rich_, lads, and the slavers the richest people in it. When we plundered Myr city we fairly _swam_ in gold; three hundred gold dragons per man, each man-at-arms' share came to when the spoils were divided, and that's besides what the men picked up of their own accord! I saw archers who had filled their helmets with gold and silver, and knights who filled their saddlebags with jewels. And Tyrosh and Lys are as rich as Myr ever was, if not richer." He chuckled cavernously. "So what think you, lads? Will ye stay here and watch the grass grow and the sheep shit, or will ye sail to Myr where ye can prove yourselves men in a godly cause _and_ fill your purses?"

The lordlings gave a brief but no less enthusiastic cheer and then fell to dickering among themselves. Before the night was out half a dozen partnerships would be formed as the young men vowed to pool their money to cover the cost of sailing to Myr or at least to Pentos, and plans were laid to meet at White Harbor on such-and-such a date to catch a ship for the sunny South.

Catelyn Stark glowered at them the while, although long training meant that it was a very subtle glower; a slight tightening at the corners of her eyes and an unusual intensity of gaze more than anything overt. The nobility of the North had come to Winterfell to celebrate the birth of her and Brandon's second son Rickard, and by rights the Greatjon should have kept his tongue behind his teeth until at least the second or third day of festivities. But there the giant Northman was, seducing the young men of the North with tales of the Kingdom of Myr and barely deigning to glance her way. The muscles at her jaw hinges tightened as she clenched her teeth in frustration.

A hand on her wrist interrupted her dark thoughts. "Peace, love," Brandon murmured under the brabble of the hall. "Words are wind, and the Greatjon's don't blow in a threatening direction."

"Even when he sings Eddard's praises at your expense?" Catelyn hissed back as she turned toward her husband. "And when he steals the swords that should be yours, fulfilling your own schemes?"

Brandon shrugged. "Enough young blades remain to us to see those schemes on their way," he answered. "And those that leave are, in the main, ones that we want to leave. A man who sails off to Myr is not likely to be one content with resettling the New Gift or the Stony Shore, especially when those who settle in the Gift must tithe a part of their income to the Watch for the next thirty years."

"True enough," Catelyn allowed. "But I should think that the Greatjon would have the sense to _want_ the New Gift resettled, considering that those who settle there will shield his lands against the wildlings. Assuming of course that King Stannis gives his blessing." The message detailing Brandon's idea had gone south two sennights ago, and was awaiting King Stannis' approval; the New Gift, after all, was technically Crown land that had been gifted to the Night's Watch. And Jaehaerys the Conciliator had never said that the Iron Throne couldn't take it back.

Brandon chuckled. "No one ever accused the Greatjon of being a deep thinker," he said. "And he would rather eat crow than admit that he needed help scaring off mere raiding parties. An invasion of the sort led by Bael the Bard or Raymun Redbeard would be a different matter, but raiders?" He flicked his hand dismissively. "A mere trifle," he said in a fair imitation of the Greatjon's boisterous baritone, "not worth the effort of using both hands."

At Catelyn's involuntary giggle, he smiled and placed his hand on her wrist again. "Go easily, love," he said soothingly, "the Greatjon will be a stout friend of ours so long as we give him his due. Even if he loved us not, he would keep his peace, for the sake of Ned's regard for him."

Catelyn nodded grudgingly. "Like as not," she said. "Although I still can't bring myself to like him." She flicked her eyes over to where Benjen sat on Brandon's other side. "In any case, we have a stout shield and a strong sword of our own, if the Greatjon or anyone else becomes too . . . restive."

Brandon also glanced at his youngest brother. "Aye, that we do," he said proudly; Benjen was just past twenty, and already had a name as a fine man-at-arms. Just as importantly, he had made it plain to everyone he met that he had no interest in the game of thrones. "For a time at least." At Catelyn's surprised look he shrugged again. "He wants to join the Night's Watch, still," he explained, "and I'm not inclined to say him nay. The Watch has been too long without a Stark."

Catelyn made a moue of distaste. "It seems a waste," she said, "to condemn him to a life in exile when his nephews may have need of him."

"And his going may forestall that need," Brandon replied. "Benjen cares naught for politics, aye, but others will care naught that he cares naught. It would not be the first time that the Stark in Winterfell was a puppet of overmighty bannermen."

Catelyn's arms tightened instinctively around her son. She had no illusions as to what her fate or the fate of her children would be if such a thing came to pass. "He said himself that that was part of why he wanted to join the Watch," Brandon went on, "and it is also why I am minded to let him. In the Watch he cannot be used as a cats-paw, and there is honor enough in serving the Watch that none would take exception."

Catelyn nodded. "Very well," she said unwillingly, leaning back in her chair. "Let him go then, when Rickard reaches his first nameday." Brandon leaned back in his own chair with a nod, before turning his attention to young Domeric Bolton with a practiced smile. Catelyn subsided, stroking her sleeping son as she did so. She still had little regard for the Night's Watch, given the state to which it had fallen; her uncle Brynden had once traveled to the Wall, when Catelyn was still a girl, and she had heard him describe the Watch to her father as "the scum of the earth; not worth the steel it would take to send them to the Hells." But in the North they were still honored, enough so that she held her peace about them for the most part, especially since her husband prided himself on the support he gave them. The last thing she wanted to give credence to the malcontents who muttered in their drink that Brandon the Broken gave his Southron wife too much influence.

Fortunately, those who grumbled had little enough to give weight to their complaints. The North had had four years of peace and plenty, enough so that even the Ryswells and the Dustins had little reason to inveigh against Brandon's rule. The lords were content, or at least content enough, and for their chafing sons there were always the Essosi wars. For all the grumbling about her husband's legs and all the toasts raised to the Iron Wolf there was not a single whisper of rebellion.

Let them sing of Ned Stark and his victories, she told herself. Sooner or later Robert the Brief's wars would grind him up, and any sons he left would be half-Ironborn. And the First Men had been at feud with the Ironborn long before the first Andal set foot in Westeros.

There was no sept here to pray in, for as much as her husband loved her he could not lay himself open to the charge of inviting the Faith into the last great stronghold of the old gods. But she had her septa and the little altar and septych in her solar, and she had much to be thankful for; two healthy sons, three years of peace, and a good and loving husband. It would be almost ungrateful to pray for aught but more of the same.

XXX

Argen Hill pulled the sword he was working on out of the forge and peered at the color of the hot blade in the darkness of the shop. _Straw. Excellent._ That was the temperature you wanted the blade to get during tempering; either too hot or too cold and the steel in the blade wouldn't relax properly, leaving it either too hard or too soft to use in battle.

He placed the sword back in the forge a minute more, for luck, and then lifted it out to place it on the cooling bench. Once it was cooled, an apprentice would sharpen, polish, and hilt it, and by the time that was done he would be a quarter to a third of the way through the next blade. He stripped off the kerchief he had wound around his head and mopped his brow before dragging the kerchief back through his short-cropped hair to collect the sweat; blacksmiths tended to be short-haired, usually by choice given the obvious dangers of having long hair in a workplace that include open flames and occasional flying embers. Every so often, however, a smith had his hair shortened involuntarily, and sympathy aside he was usually roundly teased for having his pretensions so definitively answered.

Master Mott's shop was always busy, but the past month had seen work flow through their doors like a river. Aside from the usual orders, Master Mott had taken a contract to provide weapons for King Stannis' new fleet, in order to arm the sailors and free rowers. Argen smiled ruefully as he remembered how Master Mott had broken the news. "Lads," he had said, the rough gutturals of his native accent showing through the rapid, clipped accent of King's Landing, "I've taken on a hard contract. By month's end sixteen months from now, we need to make three thousand shortswords, as many spears, two thousand hand-axes, and a thousand war hammers, all for the King's fleet. That in addition to our regular orders. It'll be hard graft, I know it, but if any shop can do it, we can." He had swept his assembled journeymen and apprentices with his habitually stern gaze. "I'll say it now; we'll be too busy to deal with workers who can't stand the pace. You all know I pay the best wages the Guild offers, and I'll add some hard-lying money. If you don't think you can take the strain, tell me after we're done here and I'll give you a good reference to another shop. If you stay, then you're in for the whole haul. Any questions? No? Then let's get to work."

They had cheered him then, and no one had taken him up on his offer to back out; Master Mott _was _the best master in the whole Armorer's Guild, after all, and the men and boys who worked for him wouldn't have traded places with anyone, even a Stormguard. But he hadn't been exaggerating; the work since he had taken the contract had been almost brutal. There were days when Argen barely had the strength to stagger home from the shop, and even sleeping his ears rang with the din of hammer on anvil. But by the gods, they were doing it; with half the journeymen and three-quarters of the apprentices in the shop dedicated to the royal contract they were averaging ten shortswords a sennight taken from bar stock to rough-finished weapon. Five months in they were already halfway through the order of spears, as they took less time to forge, and Bryer, Ronard, and Aldo were a third of the way through making the necessary number of hand-axe heads.

Argen took a waterskin from an apprentice with a nod of thanks and drank deep before pouring more water over his head and handing it back. There were times, he allowed as he mopped his face again with his kerchief, that he couldn't help wincing at the rough and simplistic nature of the weapons they were churning out; Master Mott placed a high value on the artistry of his work and that attitude was something that his journeymen and apprentices absorbed in their bone marrow. But it couldn't be helped. What was important in this contract was speed and efficiency, not artistry. It would have to be enough that each weapon was stamped with the crossed hammer and goat's head that was Master Mott's maker's mark. And speaking of which, it was time that he put his nose back to the grindstone himself. Argen pulled a fresh kerchief out of his pocket, tied it around his head, and walked over to the barrel that held fresh bar stock; there was still enough time in the day to at least rough out a new blade. If there wasn't time for more, then the apprentices could pick it up tomorrow for grinding.

XXX

Richard Norcross sighed in satisfaction; it had been a fine wedding and a finer feast than any in recent memory, at least in the sort of circles he and his moved in. Gods knew he had paid enough, not just for his niece's dowry but also for food and drink enough to feast almost every landed knight and minor nobleman of any name along the Upper Mander. The hall was still well-filled with men and women celebrating the day and the happy couple, even though the bedding had come and gone and most of the revelers had sought their beds from fatigue or intoxication.

Fortunately, the three men he had invited to his solar had stayed at least mostly sober, not just for what they were going to talk about but for the sake of Richard's pride; he was quite proud of what he had done with the space. His grandfather had not been a wise man, either in his treatment of money or in his desire to improve his reputation in the lists. When Richard's father had inherited, he had had to make it his life's work to restore the family fortunes, and the economies he had been forced to institute had left the castle more austere than was suitable for a family of their station. At least he had been successful, so that Richard could restore the family's reputation for generosity and the display becoming of a nobleman.

It hadn't even been that difficult, not until recent months and the sudden advent of the new difficulties.

He donned his best comradely smile. "I trust that your lordships found the festivities to your liking?" he asked lightly.

"Yes, yes, a fine revel," his new good-cousin Lord Fredrick Norridge said expansively as he raised his goblet. "To the couple, Richard, and our houses!"

"Hear, hear," Richard said, returning the toast with his other guests as Fredrick threw back the '63 vintage Arbor gold like it was cheap hock. He had never liked Fredrick, but the Norridges were powerful enough that Fredrick's boorishness and over-fondness for drink had to be endured.

"Everything but a tourney, and the entertainments more than made up for the lack," Lord Gaston Graves allowed; four of Richard's household knights had held a wooden corral against all comers on foot with longswords, as if they were defending a miniature castle, and some of his herdsmen had performed feats of trick riding that even knights would have found difficult to copy. "I applaud you, my lord."

"Indeed, you have raised our expectations for all such events in the future," said Lord Dayvid Pommingham, his broad and florid face split with an unfortunately frog-like smile as he raised his goblet in salute. Richard returned the salute, letting his gaze cool as he looked at his least favorite of his fellows. Dayvid was, to be quite blunt, something of an ass, and a self-important one at that; the only reason Richard was considering inviting him into the little cabal he hoped to form was that he had a startlingly broad array of connections and friends. He claimed to have made them all through his work as a tax farmer in Lord Luthor's time, but Richard had his suspicions. For such an unhandsome man, Dayvid had a surprising, and to Richard's mind suspicious, number of bastards, and his sister was still unmarried despite being past fifty.

That said, no one had ever been able to prove anything, and so Dayvid continued in a state of respectability, however earned or unearned it might be. Richard had made use of his web of contacts in the past, and whatever his reservations about the man's worthiness he couldn't gainsay his abilities in his preferred field. And if nothing else it would be better to have him where Richard could keep an eye on him and get some use out of him.

"My thanks, my lords," he said graciously, deciding to throw out a line to see if they would tug. "It was not the easiest thing I have ever had to organize, especially with these new taxes and imposts we must contend with. Not that I need remind you of them."

"I should think not!" Fredrick barked, his face turning even redder than could be accounted for by how much he had drunk. "Gods, was there ever such a king? First, he betrays Lord Grafton, then he loses his fleet to a pack of dye merchants and whoremasters and expects us to bear the cost of replacing it! And when men try to defend their rights, he has their captain murdered under color of chivalry!"

"Comes of surrounding himself with hedge knights and bastards and degenerate sons of unworthy houses," Gaston spat darkly. "Not a man of worth among them, and especially not Penrose; the Tyroshi felled them like wheat before the scythe, ask anyone who was at Tyrosh."

"Very true, my lord," Fredrick said, raising his goblet in agreement. "Bad enough that Stannis burdens us with taxes for his Eastern ventures, but not content with that he inflicts these so-called '_knightly_ _orders'_," Richard could hear the sarcasm even under the wine, "upon us. Even Aerys did not go so far, madman that he was."

"Indeed, friends," Dayvid piped up, shaking his head in an affectation of mournfulness. "An ill day when lords and gentlemen must give way to hedge knights and bastards. Dorne has become a mockery of a kingdom." He gave a derisive caw of laughter. "Of course, Dorne had difficulties long before Stannis forced his Hounds upon them."

"A troubling excess of Dornishmen, first and foremost," Richard quipped, provoking a storm of laughter. He sat back in his chair and sipped at his wine as the conversation continued, smiling at what he heard. And to think he had thought that this would be difficult.

Fredrick would have been easiest of them all, of course; the new bond of familial obligation between then would have been enough. But Fredrick had always demanded every inch of what he thought was his rightful due, even as a boy; Richard knew of at least one instance in his teenage years where he had demanded a sworn sword whipped and dismissed for showing him insufficient respect. He had learned to hold his tongue as he aged, but he had grown only more jealously protective of his rights and prerogatives. Stannis' taxes and knightly orders could not have been more perfectly designed to instill in him that dangerous blending of anger and fear. He feared that Stannis was Aegon the Unlikely, the Smallfolk's Friend, come again, only this time with the steel to make his visions reality.

Gaston was almost as easy; he had answered Merryweather's muster ahead of any other Reacher house, but he still hadn't made it to the Hedgerows before Hightower's death at Blue Stone and the collapse of his army. When his force had been caught on the march by Leofric Corbray he had surrendered, ransomed himself and his knights, gone home, and stayed home even when Rhaegar had raised his banner in Myr. Gaston had hoped to be rewarded or at least recognized, but Stannis' favor had amounted only a trifling dispute resolved in their favor; the Sour Stag, it seemed, expected more from his leal lords than their simply refusing temptation.

But Gaston had held his peace, and might have simply taken out his spleen on the king's knights at tourneys, were it not for his brother. Ser Pattar Graves had been a fine knight, a good swordsman and a truly excellent jouster, who had wished nothing more than to serve in the Kingsguard. The Graves were not so great a family that a son of theirs could readily aspire to the white cloak, but they were certainly well born enough to aspire to the gold-edged black cloak of the Stormguard with its crossed lightning bolt and stag's antler, and Pattar had certainly had the prowess to earn one. But he had been overly fond of dice and drink, and Ser Cortnay Penrose had turned him away with harsh words and given his cloak to a _hedge knight_, and one whose father had been a tanner at that, by all reports.

Ser Pattar Graves had walked into the Blackwater Rush in full armor that same day. And ever since, his brother had hated the Lord Commander of the Stormguard like a septon hated the Lord of the Seven Hells, and had reportedly sworn to take bloody revenge on Ser Dannel Tanner, the base-born thief who had stolen the cloak Pattar had earned a hundred times more than he. And hatred of the servant, Richard knew, easily became hatred of the master.

Dayvid, for his part, was more difficult but also simpler, in his way; the man was ambitious as a Blackfyre, pure and simple. He wanted his house exalted and its detractors thrown down and trampled. House Pommingham, however, had not the strength to effect such a change by force of arms, and Dayvid himself was too much out of favor with the great lords of the Reach to raise himself by connection with one of them. He had left the Tyrell's service some years ago under undefined-but-inauspicious circumstances, and no one was foolish enough to take on someone under Lord Mace's displeasure. If Dayvid wanted his house to rise, then the game needed to change, and somewhat drastically at that.

Eventually, with the wine taking its toll, the three lords retired, having discussed nothing meaningful but agreeing to meet again. Even if they didn't know why or wherefore. As they sought their beds Richard stared into the fire, drawing out his half-brother's medallion and fingering it moodily. Westeros was a troubled land, he would agree, but he had his doubts as to Stannis' responsibility for the disquiet. But for all his faults Stannis, and his brother Robert as well, it had to be said, had demonstrated that there was no problem that could not be solved with vision and might. And Robert's pet septon, proving that there was no hole so dark that light would not shine into it, had shown the way.

He raised his half-brother's medallion to his lips and kissed the simple seven-pointed star. He would, he decided, send word to Septon Ryman, and to others that his half-brother had written him of over the years since he had been sent to a poor septry in the Dornish Marches, and seek their council. They had seen, 'through a glass darkly' as Ryman had put it, quoting Jon of the Star, a vision of a different Westeros, but mere sight was not enough. What was needed to make vision reality was force, and he was closer to providing that force than anyone had been since Maegor's day. All it would take was patience, and Richard knew he was not a patient man by nature.

_But,_ he reminded himself, _all things are possible through the gods who are our strength and our solace._

XXX

The Ironborn were not much for sacred sites. Why would they be, when all the seas and oceans of the world were sacred, the very home of their god? Wherever saltwater flowed, there the Ironborn found holiness.

The one exception to this rule was Nagga's hill, on Old Wyk. It was here, the very oldest legends said, that the Drowned God had made the original covenant with the Ironborn, granting them dominion over the waves in return for their obedience and worship, and it was here where He had placed the bones of Nagga the sea dragon, to remind them always of the covenant they had made. It was on Nagga's hill that the kings of old had been crowned and the lords of the Isles had pledged their fealty, and it was on Nagga's hill where the mourning service for those kings was held when they died, regardless of where their bodies had been given to the waves.

And it was here where the lords of the Ironborn sought the guidance of the god, and rededicated themselves to his service.

Balon Greyjoy, his already harsh face made wolfish by a full day and night without even water, strode out from Nagga's ribs, where he had knelt in prayer since sunrise the day before. He was the very picture of a reaver in his black-enameled plate, with the words _What is dead may never die_ inlaid in gold into chisel-etched channels on the edges of his breastplate, pauldrons, vambraces, tassets, and gauntlets. His sword-belt was a length of golden chain that he had taken from a Lyseni pleasure galley on his first reaving voyage, and the scabbard of his sword was inlaid with tendrils of alternating blackened and gilded steel carved to resemble kraken tentacles.

He did not stand alone, either, just as he had not prayed alone. His eldest son Rodrik stood at his right hand in a knee-length hauberk of blackened ring-mail over a walrus-hide jerkin. His second son Maron stood at his left, in similar armor; both young men had long-hafted hand-axes thrust through their belts. Balon's brothers Urrigon and Aeron were there as well in their war-gear; Aeron looked worn and winced at the brightness of the unclouded sky, while Urrigon's eyes seemed to glow with fervor. Balon's goodbrother Rodrik Harlaw cut an unexpectedly martial figure in his breastplate and arm harness; the Reader's prowess was not well-regarded, but even if the wrinkles around his eyes owed more to poring over books than to peering through rain squalls and sea-glare they could still be as cold as any reaver's. Rodrik's cousins Hotho and Boremund were also there in their armor; Balon had made it plain that this was to be a family affair.

Before them, standing between them and the crowd of local notables and karls headed by Ser Harras Harlaw, who for all his worship of the Seven was still Ironborn, that had come to witness, stood the oldest and most venerable of the Drowned God's priests, Sigurd Stone-Eye. He was past the age of eighty, and his kelp-braided beard reached almost to his knees and was white as bone, but his back was still straight, his voice still clear, and his one good eye glowered undimmed at the world. His other eye, the right, was blind and milky as a beach pebble, with an old scar bisecting the brow above and the cheekbone underneath; it was whispered that he himself had wielded the blade that made that wound, as an offering to the god in hope of receiving wisdom.

Balon stepped up to the old priest and knelt, but did not lower his head, staring Sigurd in the face. His sons and brothers and goodbrother and cousins did likewise; the Ironbron were reverent but not obsequious in their devotions. The Drowned God did not love men who feared.

Sigurd Stone-Eye raised his waterskin as the minor priests who formed his retinue moved forward to do likewise for the other Greyjoys and Harlaws, and poured a steady stream of saltwater, not an hour out of the sea, onto Balon's forehead. "God who drowned for us," he intoned in the old language of the Isles, following a formula that was ancient centuries before the Targaryens landed on Dragonstone, "let Balon Greyjoy your servant be born again from the sea, as you were. Bless him with salt," he trailed the stream of water down Balon's nose, "bless him with stone," he trailed the water across Balon's eyes, "bless him with steel." He emptied the rest of his waterskin over Balon's forehead, in a gesture of great favor, and lowered the waterskin.

"What is dead may never die," Balon said in the same language, refusing to blink or let his voice waver even as the saltwater stung his eyes.

"What is dead may never die," Sigurd Stone-Eye affirmed, still in the old tongue, "but rises again, harder and stronger." He raised Balon to his feet and embraced him ceremoniously. "I hope you know what you're doing," he whispered in Balon's ear, "for our people's sake."

Balon clapped the old priest on the back. "I do, old one," he whispered back respectfully. "If I did not, I would not do this." He broke the embrace and turned away to clasp forearms with the Reader. "We have work to do, goodbrother," he said in a low voice under the cheering of the crowd.

The Reader nodded. "Aye," he said just as lowly, "especially since we want to do this _right_." Balon nodded agreement. Only a fool started a rebellion overnight.


	67. Chapter 67: The Gyre Tightens

Eddard was fighting for his life.

His opponent was pressing him hard, his narrow-bladed sword flashing through a dizzying barrage of thrusts aimed at visor, armpits, and the insides of his elbows, the main places where his armor had the gaps necessary to allow him to see, breathe, and move. In his left hand a long dagger with a wide guard and a metal sheet curving over the back of the man's hand down to the pommel waited like a coiled viper, ready either to strike or to catch one of the counter-blows Eddard managed to throw into the gaps between his opponent's attacks. His opponent didn't quite have Eddard's height or weight of muscle, but his arms seemed as long as an ape's and they were dazzlingly fast. Twice a thrown counter-cut had been foiled almost as soon as it had been launched, when his opponent had interposed either sword or dagger at the very beginning of the cut's arc.

Eddard's breath sounded like a trumpet in the confines of his helmet. If he was feeling the strain so much then his opponent _had_ to be facing a similar level of fatigue. If he could simply ride out the storm of blows . . . His opponent overextended by perhaps an inch, Eddard let go of his longsword's hilt with his right hand to wrap his arm around his opponent's sword and threw a short cut towards his opponent's face hoping to connect with the base of his sword, and his opponent _ducked under the cut_ at the cost of letting go his sword and bounced up again to drive his dagger at Eddard's visor. A desperately upflung right arm caught the strike at his opponent's wrist and Eddard dropped his own sword to throw a left cross that caught his opponent on the morion hard enough to spoil his second dagger-thrust and got his own dagger in his right fist . . .

"HOLD!" the marshal shouted, and Eddard and his opponent both froze in place with Eddard's dagger half-raised and his opponent having just switched his dagger from left hand to right and raised his left arm to intercept Eddard's overhand blow. "I declare that you sers have done enough," the marshal said in a normal voice, "and I declare this bout a draw. This match is a draw, zero-zero-three."

Eddard stepped back, sheathing his dagger on the second try with his hands shaking from the draining battle-fury, and then knocked his visor upward and stripped off his gauntlet to extend his hand to Syrio Forel, who had handed his dagger to his second and was advancing with his heavy steerhide glove off and a brilliant smile on his face. "Well fought, Lord Stark!" the Braavosi champion exclaimed as he took Eddard's hand and embraced him while the small crowd of onlookers cheered. The match had originally been arranged as a private matter between two lovers of the blade, but word had gotten out. Half the court, most of the Braavosi embassy, and what looked like a brigade of representatives from every Legion company in the city garrison had turned out to watch the First Sword of Braavos, the champion of the Commune, cross swords with the Iron Wolf, the great paladin of the Kingdom of Myr. "I must revise my opinion of the iron dance of Westeros; it has more of art than I had thought."

"Likewise, Ser Forel," Eddard replied, patting him on the back of his brigandine; he had feared that the First Sword might have held a grudge over how Eddard had unintentionally fooled him the last time they met, but fortunately this did not seem to be the case. "I will write the Sealord and let him know that his First Sword is indeed the best blade he may ask for." As they broke the embrace to collect their swords from where they had fallen Eddard shook his head. "Gods witness, I've never seen a man as fast as you," he said wonderingly. "How do you do it?"

"Long practice, my lord," Syrio said smilingly as he picked up his sidesword and ran his thumbnail down the edge to check for nicks. "Just as you became so strong; Death's blade, but there were times I feared for my wrists under your blows." Syrio took his sword-belt from Adaran, who had acted as his second for the length of his match with Eddard and ran the sword into the plain black leather scabbard. "Scalizzeri called you a wolf when first we met," he went on as he buckled the belt low on his hips, lower than a knight would wear it, "but my impression of you, forgive me, was that you were still a cub, if a dangerous one. Now you are become a wolf indeed, with fangs fit to slay a dragon. May I interest you in a glass of grappa, to celebrate this feat of arms? It's a distilled grape spirit, fit for only the greatest of warriors."

Eddard bowed. "By all means, ser," he said as he accepted his own scabbard from Saul and sheathed his longsword. "I'll need to let those fangs grow a bit longer first," he went on as he hooked the scabbard back onto his belt, "if the best I can do against a tiger is to double him."

Syrio shook his head. "We doubled each other because we were unfamiliar with how each other fought," he answered, taking off his other glove and stuffing them both into his belt before reaching up to undo the chinstrap of his morion. "Against one whose style of the sword-art is more familiar to you, you will have but little to fear, unless I miss my guess." He pulled his morion off and tucked it under his arm as he undid the laces of his arming cap. "I trust, at any rate," he continued as he shook out his short, curly hair and mopped sweat from his brow with the outside of his arming cap, "that I have laid to rest any fears that the sons of the Titan are poor men of their hands."

Eddard shook his head as he handed his bascinet to Saul, who had already taken his gauntlets. "I had no such fears, for my part," he replied, "however much our knights might have." Left unsaid was the fact that the Legion was far more skeptical of the Braavosi than the chivalry had ever been; the freedmen remembered how long the Braavosi had been content to turn a blind eye to slavery. It would take more than a single match between swordsmen to convince them of the worth of their new allies. "Although it seems to me that this 'water dance' is more suited to dueling than to the battlefield."

Syrio laughed. "There is water and _water_, my lord," he said, "as any child of the sea knows. There is a great difference indeed between a mountain stream flowing around and between the rocks, and the Narrow Sea in a winter storm, with a living gale out of the north driving the waves as high as your mainmast."

"I doubt it not," Eddard said, nodding as he considered the picture Syrio had painted. The Sunset Company hadn't had to deal with storms on their crossing, but he had heard enough stories to have at least some understanding of the danger they posed. "I would be glad to see the Commune's soldiers in action against the enemy, especially if I fought at their side."

"May that day come swiftly," Syrio replied, his smile becoming alarmingly vulpine for a moment. "The word we have had is very good; the whole force of the Commune is arming. With another four or five months to train, we should be able to put three hundred and fifty galleys in the water, each filled with marines and armed rowers, besides the battalions that will come marching down the coastal road."

Eddard whistled softly; three hundred and fifty galleys carrying seventy-five marines apiece amounted to something on the order of twenty-seven thousand fighting men, not counting armed rowers and the officers and crew. With those men and the Braavosi land force added in, that was roughly equivalent to the full arriere-ban of the Vale. And while the Valemen would represent everything on the scale of armament from knights in full plate with longswords and poleaxes to smallfolk levies with leather jerkins and hunting spears, the Braavosi would all be at least moderately armored, and their infantry would be some of the best-armored footmen in the world.

It was also a significant concentration of force for a state with interests in need of protection that spread from Lannisport to Yi-ti, but Eddard was willing not to poke his nose into that matter. The important thing was that the Braavosi seemed to be assigning a higher priority to the war against slavery, and that their interest should be cultivated and exploited. "These battalions of yours," he asked as the two walked off the training yard, leaving behind them the excitedly chattering crowd, "they sound much like the companies of the Iron Legion?"

Syrio nodded. "Although we prefer pikes instead of spear-and-shield," he said. "And our greater wealth means we can afford to armor our infantrymen in half-plate instead of brigandines. It makes us less maneuverable than your Legion perhaps, but on shipboard there is not much room to maneuver, no? So we maneuver less in favor of simply cutting our way through the enemy."

Eddard nodded agreement. He had heard stories of the Battle of Tyrosh, both secondhand and from survivors who had found their way to Myr for one reason or another. They had been fragmented and contradictory, but they had all emphasized the violent and merciless nature of shipboard action. "Well, I look forward to seeing them in action," he said. "Them, your fleet, the Legion, and our chivalry? We shall conquer Tyrosh in no time, if the gods will it so."

"There is only one god for warriors, my lord," Syrio said, his face turning somber, "and his name is Death. But," his smile came back, "methinks that Death will come for Tyrosh before he comes for us, eh? Especially," his smile turned sly, "since Tyrosh is not the only conquest on King Robert's mind, no?"

Eddard laughed. "No, it is not," he said. "Although it would be a strange thing if one Braavosi maiden were to prove a harder conquest than an enemy city in arms."

Syrio chuckled. "You have never courted a Braavosi maiden, have you, my lord?" he asked jestingly.

Saul and Adaran, following behind them with their helmets, smiled at each other as Eddard and Syrio's laughter rang off the walls of the corridor.

XXX

The third anniversary of the taking of Myr, and the founding of the kingdom, was celebrated in slightly restrained style. The knights of King Robert's court jousted with each other on the lists outside the city while the Ironborn wrestled and Legion soldiers raced in armor, there was a public holiday with bards, jugglers, and other entertainers in every market square paid for by the Crown, and a trio of statues carved by a Braavosi sculptor was installed at the gates of the military cemetery outside the city. These statues, showing a Legion spearman, an Andal knight and archer, and an Ironborn housekarl, had been commissioned by Bassanio Scalizzeri when news of the Sunset Company's taking of Myr had reached Braavos and had been unloaded only a sennight ago, having been brought south and gifted to the Myrish Crown as a gesture of the Scalizzeri's regard for the Kingdom. The statues had been placed before the gates of the military cemetery like so many silent guardians, and King Robert had dedicated them to their duty with a short speech.

This last ceremony had been attended not just by the court and the Braavosi embassy, but also as many citizens as had been able to stream out the gates to reach the cemetery, and their subsequent flow back into the city had outstripped the court's attempt to reach the gates ahead of them. As a result, the court and the embassy were having to ride around the city to the Great Northern Gate, as the Great Eastern Gate was jammed with a slow-moving crowd of people that no force of man or nature could have cleared a path through. Serina found herself hoping fervently that the streets back to the palace weren't jammed as well; this was only her second time on horseback for any length of time, and her legs and back were already sore from having to follow the horse's motion.

And her discomfort wasn't helped by the fact that Ser Gerion Lannister and Ambassadress Dorysa Antaryon had maneuvered their own horses so that Serina found herself riding beside King Robert, the Ambassadress smiling mischievously as she did so. Serina kept herself from rolling her eyes with an effort of will. It was all well and good that the Ambassadress was in favor of the King courting her, especially since she had reconciled herself to it, but sometimes it seemed that she was having a little _too _much fun playing matchmaker.

She cleared her throat noiselessly; a habit picked up during her studies. "I thought your speech was very good, Your Grace," she began. "'Having lost their lives for this kingdom, they became its people.' I'll have to remember that line to my cousin; he has a fascination with rhetoric."

Robert nodded. "Septon Jonothor helped me write it," he replied. "The sentiment was mine but he helped me find the words for it. Part of being a septon is having to come with a new speech at least once a sennight and have it be interesting enough to hold your congregation's attention."

Serina smiled. "I imagine all priests share that same challenge," she said, provoking a laugh and a gesture of acknowledgement. She hesitated for a moment, then went on. "Forgive me for asking, but I was wondering why Your Grace didn't attend Septon Jonothor's services? I was under the impression that his new doctrines had met with your approval."

"They had," Robert said, "and please, call me by my name; we are courting, after all." His face lost its good humor somewhat as Serina nodded. "I want to attend Jonothor's services," he said, "but my Small Council have asked me not to, for the time being; Ser Gerion all but begged on bended knee. It would be _impolitic_," he almost spat the word, "to so irretrievably break with the High Septon, given our current position." He laughed sardonically. "As if the High Septon had not irretrievably broken with _me,_ by suborning one of my knights."

Serina nodded. She had heard the story of Ser Leofric Corbray. "I had thought that you had already broken with the High Septon?" she asked. "I confess I know little enough of the theology involved, but since Septon Jonothor _has _been declared a heretic . . ." She spread her hands.

Robert shrugged. "For my part, I broke with the High Septon when he ordered Jonothor to return to King's Landing for a trial that would end in his legal murder," he replied. "But that break hasn't resulted in this kingdom being placed under interdict, a ban on the rites of the Faith being performed," he explained at her blank look, "or in me, personally, being excommunicated. And, for now, it would be much better for it to stay that way, if only to preserve the flow of volunteers from the southern part of the Seven Kingdoms."

Serina nodded. "I see," she said. "If you broke with the High Septon, that flow would dry up?"

"Like a puddle in a desert," Robert confirmed. "And it would cause problems here as well, among those of the Faithful that haven't accepted Jonothor's doctrine. My own Master of Law, to name only one. If nothing else, the Faithful that still follow the Great Sept would be much less likely to fight in the kingdom's wars, or at least fight as boldly as I would need them to, if they did not think that they would be assured a proper burial."

Serina winced. The Moonsingers had an equivalent, but it was only rarely used; usually the mere threat was enough to produce compliance. "So you wouldn't have nearly as many knights as you have now?"

Robert nodded. "If the High Septon declared an interdict tomorrow, we would lose at least half our knights, if not two-thirds. Or so I would guess; it's not the sort of question you can just come out and ask someone. And we would have no way to replace them except through our squires, who would not be of the same prowess. Not that they would be poor knights," he said hastily, "but someone who starts riding at six or seven is vastly better than someone who only starts riding at fourteen or fifteen or sixteen, as with most of our current squires. The level of prowess we have now we would not have again for at least ten years and probably more like fifteen, when my son Stalleo and his generation become squires."

Serina nodded. The Iron Legion might be the shield of the Kingdom of Myr, but the chivalry, the knights and lords and men-at-arms, were its sword, the men who shattered the armies that broke on the Legion's spears and rode them down in bloody ruin. "Hence the need to placate the High Septon and prevent such a disaster."

Robert smiled bitterly. "Which is why I must bite my tongue and take the sacraments from septons who aren't fit to lick Jonothor's sandals clean." He shook his head. "I gave up the Iron Throne so that I wouldn't have to live my life according to policy," he said. "And even when I took the throne here I thought I could let my Small Council handle the policy while I played the warrior-king, with a war horse for a throne, a helmet for a crown, and my hammer for a scepter." His hand rose, seemingly unconsciously, and fingered the Two Dragons hanging from his neck. "I learned differently, at Pentos."

Serina nodded. "I had hoped to live without policy as well," she said pensively. "Or at least to make the policy as bearable as may be, given my duty to my family." She paused, then forged on. "Forgive me for asking, but how does King Stannis see this matter? I have been told that you and he are, ah, not friends."

Robert threw his head back and laughed. "That's a very polite way of putting it," he chortled before calming down and waving a hand. "But no, the bad blood between us has grown in the telling; we exchange letters, often with unsolicited advice. He keeps telling me to get an heir, and a legitimate one, not another bastard, if I want my realm to last, and I keep telling him to drag the Archon to King's Landing in chains if he really wants to win the love of his nobles. We have never and probably never will be bosom friends, but we're still brothers, for all that; he stood by me in the Rebellion and I gave him the Iron Throne."

He frowned and looked ahead again. "Although that might change, given this matter of the Faith. I can thumb my nose at the High Septon with some degree of security, but Stannis has to live in the same city as the self-righteous old fart. More to the point, Stannis has his children's inheritance to think about; he wouldn't want to take the risk that the High Septon might refuse to confirm either of them in the Faith, or to crown Lyonel when the time comes." He shook his head. "No, Stannis will back the High Septon, for all that we're brothers. Especially since he doesn't just have the High Septon to worry about."

Serina frowned, then nodded. "His nobles?"

"One defeat can wipe out a hundred victories," Robert replied. "And Stannis doesn't have that many victories _to _wipe out, just the Red Viper's rebellion and that mess on Crackclaw Point, which to be honest anyone could have beaten if they kept their nerve. At the moment, Stannis is weaker than he's been since he took the Throne. If the High Septon were to make it known that Stannis was in his bad books . . ." He shrugged. "The Westerlands and the Vale might be safe, with Tywin being Stannis' goodfather and Jon Arryn being his Hand, but the other kingdoms would go up like a bonfire. The Targaryens were overthrown because they made too many and too powerful enemies, and they had more than two hundred years of legitimacy behind them; Stannis only has four." He shook his head. "No, Stannis won't take chances. Not with his children's inheritance on the table."

Serina reached across and laid a hand on Robert's forearm. "I'm sorry, Robert," she said softly.

Robert shrugged heavily, which she imagined was something of a feat in full armor. "Eh, well, such is the life of kings," he said. "And it's not like the news is all sour; Lord Corbray's asked permission to form a chivalric order for those knights that find themselves excluded from the existing brotherhoods on account of their choosing to follow Jonothor, as he has." He laughed. "I wish Ser Mychel joy of drawing up the laws governing such a thing; the man's a Baelorite, as I said, and if he wants an order for knights that follow the High Septon then he'll have to give them the same liberties that Jonothoran knights have. No more and no less."

Serina joined him in laughing. "Oh gods, but that must be uncomfortable. It's one thing to limit someone else's liberties but when that means limiting your own . . ."

Robert nodded, still laughing. "Yes, he'll have some sleepless nights ahead of him," he said. "It may be unchivalrous of me to find it funny but I can just see him grumbling and grousing to himself as he looks down the parchment of what he'd like to give the Jonothoran orders and what he'd like to give the Baelorite orders and chewing his guts out over reconciling the two . . ."

As Robert and Serina's laughter drifted back to them, Ser Gerion looked at the Ambassadress and raised an eyebrow. "What was it you said?" he asked archly. "That His Grace would have to take some lessons in courting?"

The Ambassadress snorted. "That was before I knew how quick a study he was," she said primly. "And I still say that his taste in gifts needs some work. The silk was lovely, but the color it was in was last in fashion when _I_ was a girl."

Ser Gerion laughed. "Ye of little faith," he said jestingly. "I'll be telling my household to make sure they have clothes suitable for a wedding. They'll need them, if I'm any judge."

As Serina's laughter subsided into giggles, she remembered another thing that she had wanted to ask. "I've heard much of King Stannis' wife," she said. "Is it true that she's the most beautiful woman in Westeros?"

"Cersei?" Robert asked. At Serina's nod, he frowned, and then shrugged. "Well, I haven't seen all the women in Westeros," he said mock-seriously, making Serina reach over and nudge his arm with her elbow, "so I would have to reserve judgement. But yes, she is quite the beauty. But compared to some I have seen here in Essos . . ." his look made Serina blush.

XXX

The Faith had no shortage of martyrs. The annals of the Faith were full of stories of men (and no few women) who had suffered horrible torments for the sake of the Gods. Drownings, dismemberments, burnings, decapitations, stonings, even one incident where a missionary who had offended the crannogmen had been dipped in a vat of blood and tied to an anthill. Seminary students were required to read them all and memorize as many as they could, as an aid to their devotions.

Jonothor wondered if he could start a new category in the Faith's martyrologies. Surely it could be agreed that even burning at the stake had its positive points compared to running a general council. Burning at least resulted in a relatively quick death, or so he had been told, while the meetings and conferences and debates of a general council went on and on and _on and on . . . _He shook himself; contemplating the burden of work before him was a fool's errand. That way lay madness. And he _had _brought it on himself, with his Protestation.

Simply choosing the venue had been frustrating. The council had quickly become too large to be housed in the First Sept without forcing its closure, and Jonothor had insisted that no undue hardship fall on his parishioners. King Robert had offered the Palace of Justice, but Jonothor had agreed with the Small Council that it would be inappropriate; the council was a matter of faith, not of state, and it would be impolitic for the Crown to be seen to take sides in the burgeoning schism. Finally, Ser Mychel Egen mentioned that the Crown had taken possession of a manse in the city as part of settling the debts of a merchant venturer whose schemes had apparently met with spectacular failure. Jonothor had thought it a bit much, given the richness of the furnishings, but he couldn't deny the usefulness of the sheer size of the place.

It would be an exaggeration to say that every septon, septa, and scholar of the Faith in Myr had chosen to attend the council, but one could be forgiven for thinking so. There were, by the estimation of Jonothor's secretary Vogos (Jonothor snorted to himself; a fine pass things had come to when _he_, who had always taken pride in writing his own correspondence, had a secretary) at least a thousand people attending the council, and _all of them _wanted to add their widow's mite to the general discussion over what to do with the schism they found themselves facing. At this very moment there was one committee in the music room discussing the territorial organization of the new Faith, another in the receiving room chewing over how best to revise the Hugorian Creed to fit the new doctrine, another in the upstairs sunroom trying to decide how to organize the hierarchy of the new Faith, and another (the largest, this) in the formal dining room trying to resolve how the new Faith would interact with other faiths.

Jonothor spent as much time on that one committee as he did on all the rest put together, and the questions it posed gave him the most heartache. Being cut off from his former friends and colleagues in Westeros he had accepted, but the schism had not been merely between the Kingdom of Myr and the Seven Kingdoms. There were many in Myr itself, primarily merchants, knights, and noblemen, who had broken ties with Jonothor and those septs that had either joined him or even simply not denounced him. The merchants he had expected; almost all of them had ties in Westeros that would be endangered if they embraced him, and the loss of those ties could potentially ruin them. His old parish in Flea Bottom had only attracted the lowest tier of merchant, but Jonothor had still seen for himself how living the life of a merchant required a cold-blooded pragmatism that even the most hard-boiled of knights could find shocking. He could not bring himself to condemn them.

The loss of the knights and nobles had been a greater blow, as he had served as chaplain to many of them in the Sunset Company. Ser Mychel Egen, to name only one, now regarded him as a traitor to the Faith and the Kingdom for provoking the schism. He would still, he had sworn, uphold the laws protecting the rights of citizens regardless of their faith, but that was only because his oath to King Robert outweighed his hatred of heresy. And Jonothor had taken note recently of how many knights who had previously bowed in the street when he walked by now glowered at him and fingered the hilts of their swords. There had been a few incidents between people who held to the Great Sept of Baelor and people who followed him (and used his name to identify themselves as his followers, despite his asking them _not _to), but fortunately the City Watch tended to either support his new doctrine or at least be neutral on the subject.

Especially since Ser Mychel wasn't his only opponent on the Small Council. Ser Gerion Lannister and Ser Brynden Tully were more polite about it than Ser Mychel, but they supported the Great Sept as firmly as he did. With some justice, Jonothor had to admit, given the history of their families. Ser Gerion was old enough to remember the Reynes and the Tarbecks, and House Tully had always been plagued with insubordinate vassals. To them, heresy was rebellion, only under a different name and against a different lord. Ser Wendel Manderly had not declared himself one way or the other, but it was strongly suspected that he was awaiting instruction from his father Lord Wyman.

Fortunately, the list of potential foes ended there. Lord Stark had declared that he had no interest in the internal affairs of a faith not his own, but he had also declared that he would not favor one side of the schism over another in the managing of the Royal Army; promotions and assignments would be given out only on the basis of merit and experience. More surprisingly, Lord Greyjoy, of all people, had become a vocal supporter; apparently he and his fellow Ironborn found Jonothor and his 'heartier breed of septon' vastly preferable to the 'fat and perfumed holy men' who kept themselves in King's Landing and hid behind their vestments and the sanctity of their offices. And when appraised of the true cause of the schism the Ironborn had become even more respectful. He should have known, Jonothor reflected, that the Ironborn would find much to sympathize with in a creed that favored deeds over devotion, given that their own faith held as much.

Nor had his unlooked-for supporters limited themselves to the Small Council. The Braavosi embassy had sent people to observe the council, and he had already received several inquiries seeking 'a discussion of mutual profit'. And while the few priests of the drowned god that had come to Myr had held themselves aloof, the red priests had turned out in force. Most of them were observers, but many were taking part in the discussions, and even making their own proposals.

High Priest Kalarus had come to his rescue with an explanation. It seemed that there was a school of thought which held that the Faith of the Seven was a long-lost branch of the faith of R'hllor, corrupted by long separation. It had long been an obscure and somewhat trivial belief, but it had recently exploded in popularity among the R'hllorites of Myr. Kalarus had given orders that the red priests who chose to attend the council were to limit themselves to neighborly aid and advice, but some just couldn't resist the urge to try and shunt their wayward cousins back into the fold of the Lord of Light. Fortunately, Kalarus had foreseen the possibility, and dispatched Thoros with orders to drag out anyone who became too troublesome.

That, of course, left only the actual Faithful, and their myriad legions of proposals. Jonothor knew exactly where he stood on doctrine, and his Protestation had been accepted as the basic document of the council, but there the uniformity ended. Take the debate over the structure of the new Faith, for instance. One extreme wanted to organize the Faith in Myr on exactly the same lines that it was organized in Westeros, from the office of the High Septon on down to the constitutions of the septries and motherhouses and the rights of the begging brothers, when things became peaceful enough to allow for them. The opposite extreme wanted no organization larger than the parish sept, with overarching issues the purview of a sort of ongoing general council. In between those two poles was every degree and variety of organization under the sun, and there were days when it seemed that the only consensus that could be achieved was that no one wanted an organization that he had not proposed.

And it fell to him, Jonothor of Myr and lately of Carnival Row in Flea Bottom, to forge a working Faith out of this morass of opinion and counter-opinion. For King Robert, who was his biggest supporter for all that he had to publicly deny that he was any such thing, had told him that the council was his responsibility and that whatever came out of it would have to be something the Crown could allow to be a power in the kingdom. The king knew himself to be no theologian and so trusted Jonothor with the council as he trusted Ser Wendel with the treasury and Lord Stark with the Royal Army.

The Gods had given Jonothor everything he needed to right the course of the Faith, from the doctrine to the converts to the support of a king. It fell to him to take those elements and not only use them, but use them properly. It was a heavy load to bear, but his forerunners in the Faith had borne heavier. It behooved him to be a worthy heir to the legacy of the martyrs. He downed the glass of water he had poured himself and stood, squaring his shoulders. He had taken enough time to himself; it was time to get back into the fray.

XXX

There were times when Robert was glad to be a king. The day of his coronation, obviously, along with the tournament at the end of the First Slave War, the Battle of Solva and the taking of Alalia, and those rare occasions when he got to personally set something right for his people.

This was not one of those days.

It had been a day of meetings; long ones, short ones, informal ones, one over luncheon, and the time between them filled with correspondence and petitions. He _had _managed to take two hours on the training ground to himself, but no sooner had he walked out of the sparring ring and handed his hammer to his squire than the flow of work had come right back to him.

Nor had it even been the result of neglecting his duties. It was true that he had taken a three-day hunting trip in the country around Myr city, but that had been a political matter as much as anything, with almost the whole Court in attendance. Even the Braavosi embassy had come along, although that had its benefits . . .

Robert dragged himself out of a memory of Serina in hunting garb and smiling with excitement as the deer broke cover and forced his attention back to the meeting at hand. It was the last one of the day, and despite the long grind of the previous meetings it was still interesting enough to hold his attention for the most part. It was a small meeting, just him and Ser Brynden Tully and Maester Gordon discussing the state of the kingdom's roads and what improvements needed to be made so they could be best used to facilitate the movement of armies in the coming wars. The road network in the southern marches, for instance, was in good condition and well developed, as that had been the frontier most in need of swiftly-marching forces, but the roads in the north and east had seen less improvement in the years since the conquest. And given the news of war on the River Rhoyne, and especially of the Targaryens flexing their muscles, Ser Brynden was hoping to find space in the royal budget to improve the Great East Road enough to allow the rapid deployment of a substantial portion of the Royal Army at short notice, in case the Volantenes decided to test the borders.

For his part, Robert saw little reason not to. Once Tyrosh was wrapped up Lys would be next, and the only ally they would have left to turn to would be Volantis. Which meant that the focus of the kingdom's military efforts would have to start shifting from the south to the east, facing the coastal plain that stretched from the Narrow Sea to the west bank of the Rhoyne. Ser Wendel Manderly would have to find money to pay for the road crews, of course, but if he couldn't, then they could probably do something where the lords would be made responsible for the upkeep of those stretches of road that crossed their fiefs. The Corps of Pioneers would have charge of any improvements and would advise the royal inspectors as to what state the roads should ideally be in, but if the labor came from the feudal lords then it would at least be cheaper than hiring road-cutting crews and paying them out of the royal treasury.

Robert snorted to himself. A fine pass things had come to, when he could not only keep all of that straight but actually comprehend the meaning behind it. He had come a long way from the brash, headstrong young lordling who took pleasure in nothing so much as a good fight, a good fuck, and a good drink.

Ser Brynden flipped through the last few papers in the hardened leather folder that lay open before him and raised his head. "I believe that is everything for today, Your Grace. I'll write up a summary and send it to Ser Wendel."

"Good, good," Robert said, leaning back in his chair. "Anything else today?"

"Just one thing, Your Grace," said Maester Gordon, who now that Robert looked at him looked even more worn than Robert felt. When had that happened? "I intend to resign from my command of the Pioneers. Not immediately, but within the next month or two."

"What?" Robert asked, stunned. "In the Gods' names, why? You've done a damned fine job with them!"

Gordon shrugged. "I'm an old man, Your Grace," he said simply. "I turned fifty the year after we took the city and I haven't the strength that a man who has lived his whole life in arms might. I do not think that I can again give you the same service that I did in the last war, and if I guess aright then you will need a Commander of Pioneers who can work a full day after only four hours of sleep on hard ground."

Robert nodded unwillingly. He could definitely see Gordon's point, looking at the way his previously-full cheeks and double chin had fallen in on themselves. "It would be unjust to keep you in harness if you cannot stand the load," he agreed. "Do you have a successor in mind?"

"There are two or three of the Pioneers who I think would be able to fill my boots," Gordon answered with a nod. "I can give you their names after we're done here and arrange for you to meet them." He shrugged again. "In truth, I doubt that they would miss having me in command. They are none of them maesters, but only because there isn't a link the Citadel offers for what the Pioneers do." He paused, then forged on. "By your leave, Your Grace, there is something else I would like to do after I resign."

Robert spread his hands. "Name it," he said, "and if it is within my power to give it, I shall."

"My chain is based on architecture," Gordon said, "but my first love has always been history. In my time in Your Grace's service, I have lived through some of the most exciting history since the last Blackfyre wars. I would set it down on paper, while I still have the wit and the memory to do so."

Robert nodded slowly. "A fine ambition," he said. "If you can no longer command my Pioneers, then serve as my chronicler. Anything you need for the work is yours for the asking; any aid the Crown can give you. I would have my sons and grandsons know what I did in these wars, and why I did it."

Gordon bowed in his chair. "I shall do my utmost to inform them accurately, Your Grace," he said solemnly, before looking up with a twinkle in his eye. "And would those sons be coming swiftly, Your Grace?"

Robert laughed as Ser Brynden snorted. "Not quite yet," he said lightly. "But soon, by the grace of the gods."

XXX

Maege Mormont had not only brought reinforcements back from the North. She had also brought weirwood seeds, so that the followers of the old gods could have a proper heart tree. One of the seeds had taken to the fertile soil in the public gardens near the Palace of Justice, and while the sapling was too young to have a face carved into its trunk, it's little alcove had quickly become the preferred place of worship for the Northmen who had come to Myr, and those freedmen who had chosen to follow the old gods.

When it was not being used for worship the weirwood's alcove was technically open to any who visited the gardens, although there tended to be at least a few old gods-worshippers nearby in order to prevent anything that Ser Mychel Egen might describe as an 'unfortunate and uncivilized incident'. Aside from their watch, however, they did not interfere with anyone who chose to visit the weirwood; the old gods accepted any who came to them of their own will.

And when King Robert and Lady Serina chose to visit of an evening, the watchers snapped to attention and clapped fists to chests in the military salute; properly enough, since they were almost always either soldiers of the Royal Army or members of Lord Stark's military household. Robert returned the salute gravely, as was his wont. Men who were willing to die for you were deserving of respect, regardless of any difference in relative status.

Serina ignored the byplay, her attention captured by the weirwood. It was barely two years old, but the juxtaposition of its bone-white trunk and branches and its blood-red leaves was striking. She had seen weirwood before, in one of the doors of the House of Black and White and in the houses of those magisters who were rich enough to afford it but who still moved in the Phassos' social circles. One magister her father knew owned a cyvasse set of weirwood and ebony. But seeing the dead wood was entirely different from seeing a living tree, like the difference between seeing a lion mounted as a trophy and seeing the living beast. She could see how the First Men had come to the conclusion that there was something otherworldly about the weirwood.

"It's still very young, of course," Robert said, "and it won't be a proper heart tree until it's at least a century old, or so Ned tells me. Weirwoods grow slowly, slower than most trees."

Serina nodded. "Was there a weirwood at the Eyrie, when you were fostering?" she asked curiously.

Robert shook his head. "There was a godswood, but not a weirwood," he replied. "The soil in the Eyrie is too thin and stony to allow one to grow. But Riverrun has a weirwood, almost as old as the castle. Lyanna and I would have been married in front of it but . . . "A pained expression came over his face. "Well, I'm sure you know the story."

"As much as everyone who has heard of the madness of Rhaegar the Rapist," Serina said, nodding. There was already an epic making the rounds, _The Song of Wolf and Dragon_, which detailed the abduction of Lyanna Stark, the rebellion of her father Lord Rickard and his allies, and the downfall of House Targaryen. "What was she like?" she asked gently. "I've heard the songs and stories, of course, but I know how much storytellers and songwriters take liberties with the truth."

Robert stared silently at the weirwood for so long that Serina thought he had chosen to ignore the question. She was about to urge him to forget it when he began to speak. "As beautiful as any woman I've ever met," he said, his voice slightly roughened. "You and she would be about the same height, but she was slimmer, her hair was a lighter shade of brown, and her face was stronger-featured, if only slightly." Serina's hair was brown almost to blackness, and she had her mother's fine cheekbones and narrow jaw. "Her beauty wasn't all in her face though," he went on. "She had the sort of grace that even other women rarely have, like a cat. You could see it best when she rode, and gods all witness that she could ride like the wind; there were belted knights, some of the best horsemen in the south, that couldn't keep pace with her." He sighed gustily, his eyes years away. "And those were the least of her charms," he said, his voice slowing. "I had never met a woman who, how to say it, _pushed back_ the way Lyanna did. She had a fire to her that no other woman in the south had, and it caught my heart like a hook catching a fish. Women who would throw themselves at my feet and hang on my every word I could find anywhere, but one who had the mettle to laugh in my face and ride away?" He shook his head with a reminiscent smile. "That I had never found before, and it made me want her all the more. And when I heard at Harrenhal about how she had taken a tourney sword to a pack of squires who were bullying her father's bannerman, I knew that she was the woman for me. She was the woman I could trust to have the strength to rule my lands at my side, and give me children as strong as she and I were."

Serina nodded as Robert sighed again, this time with a shudder in his breath. "She sounds as fair as the songs describe her," she said.

"Aye," Robert rumbled, "but in this song, the knight never came to the maiden's rescue. He sat on the throne he had won and did nothing while the dragon took his fill of her and then cast her into the sea like so much refuse." His spade-like hands knotted into fists for a terrible moment before uncurling. "Forgive me," he said stiffly. "It is not a song I am fond of." A smile quirked at the corner of his mouth. "I prefer _Freedom's Hammer _to _The Song of Wolf and Dragon_."

Serina shrugged. "It could be argued that _Freedom's Hammer_ is a continuation of _Wolf and Dragon_," she pointed out. "The knight who failed in his quest sets aside the throne he won to avenge the woman he loved, and along the way learns that there is more to knighthood than courtly love."

"True enough," Robert said, "although even the happy songs leave things out. Like backaches from wearing armor for five days in a row and how dull food can get on the march and hangovers from the victory celebrations."

"Of course they do," Serina laughed. "Can you imagine trying to make _hangover_ fit into a rhyme scheme?"

Robert chuckled. "Not easily," he allowed. He sighed again. "Lyanna is avenged, at any rate," he said with a smile of predatory satisfaction. "It took a while, but the blow I gave Rhaegar at Tara killed him. May he and the Lord of the Seven Hells have much joy of each other. Ned won't be happy until the Targaryens are torn out of the world root and branch and I'll help him do it, but that's his quest more than mine, now. For my part I am content to let Rhaegar's blood wash out Lyanna's." He cocked an eyebrow at Serina. "So what is left for the knight, now that his lady has been avenged and his quest fulfilled?"

Serina smiled. "He finds a new quest, of course," she said jokingly. "When his people need aid, he seeks a strong ally, and learns of a giant who would be perfect if it could be roused."

Robert smiled. "Aye, like enough," he replied with a nod. "But the giant is old and, shall we say, set in his ways? So, he challenges the knight to give him a reason to become the knight's ally."

"And while the knight is finding that reason," Serina carried on, "he meets the giant's daughter. And he thinks to himself, 'Aha! The giant may not fight for a stranger, but he will certainly fight for his goodson!'"

Robert nodded, his eyes gleaming with enthusiasm. "So the knight courts the giant's daughter," he said, picking up the thread of the story, "and wins her hand, and the giant becomes his ally. And together they defy all the powers of evil to stand against them!" He raised a hand as if to order the charge and neither he nor Serina could keep themselves from laughing.

When they finally caught their breath, Robert looked her in the face with a serious expression. "Do you think it may be so?" he asked softly. "That the giant would fight alongside the knight, if the knight married his daughter?"

Serina felt a terrible calm settle over her. "The giant would fight anyway, after the knight's brother reminded him of his honor," she said quietly. "But for his daughter's husband he would fight with all his strength, and their enemies would tremble at his coming."

Robert nodded pensively. "But would the giant's daughter accept the knight, and all that came with him?" he asked again. "He has children from previous courtships, a son he loves and a daughter he has too long ignored. Would the giant's daughter be willing to accept the knight's earlier failings, and accept also that he cannot ignore his natural children as lesser men would?"

Serina's breath caught in her throat as she looked at her feet, her mind racing. She had known about Robert's bastards, thanks to Adaran and the Ambassadress, but she hadn't seriously considered that Robert might bring them to Court. It was not unknown or even uncommon for Braavosi men to acknowledge or at least provide for their bastards, but it was certainly rare for them to be raised alongside their legitimate half-siblings. There were appearances to keep up, after all, and it was considered both unwise and unjust to show a bastard what could have been theirs if only they had been born in wedlock but prevent them from fully enjoying it. As one would have to, in order to preserve the inheritance of their legitimate children.

On the other hand, that Robert valued his children enough to take responsibility for them spoke highly of him, and at least he was being honest about his former dalliances. Most men, she knew from listening to those of her friends that were already married, would not be. And there would be little sense in holding a grudge against him for something he had done years ago as a different man.

That said, there was policy here, too. It was not only unjust, but potentially dangerous to raise Robert's bastards alongside his legitimate children. There had never been a court without faction, and a king's bastard could be a valuable piece in such machinations, either as a way to a potential claim to the throne or as a figurehead. And that was leaving aside the possibility that the bastard in question would become ambitious enough to attempt to seize what had been denied him by an accident of birth. The Blackfyre Rebellions had been fought over such ambitions, and they were only barely outside living memory.

Conversely, there was the argument that it was possible to raise a bastard as a friend to his legitimate half-siblings, and have them become close enough friends that ambition and faction alike would be forestalled. It was a risky gambit, but one that had been known to work in the past. Daeron the Second and Aerys the First had had no servant more faithful, or more fearsome, than Brynden Rivers, known to history as Bloodraven.

And, Serina found as she looked up, she couldn't bring herself to deny that Robert was trying to do right by his children. And that counted for much. "The knight would have to agree that his children with the giant's daughter would come before his other children," she said softly. "But yes, she would accept that he could not deny his children simply because he had not married their mother." She paused. "But before she could say yea or nay, the knight would have to ask her father's leave, for such is the law of their people."

"And the law of the knight's people as well," Robert said with a nod. He reached out and stroked Serina's cheek with a hand that was remarkably gentle for all that it was covered in a swordsman's calluses and backed by an arm as thick as Serina's leg. "So he will ask," he went on softly, "and pray for a favorable answer, for he would count himself honored above all other men if the giant's daughter would be his queen."


	68. Chapter 68: Councils of Fear

_King Robert's request for Lady Phassos' hand, and it's acceptance by her father and the Braavosi Council of Thirty, was greeted with jubilation in the Kingdom of Myr. Those of us that had previously feared, however privately, for the longevity of the dynasty were made glad that at least King Robert would have a legitimate heir whose right to rule could not be denied. The Royal Army, and the Iron Legion especially, were made glad that our ally would be unquestionably bound to us, for as the descendant of a Braavosi citizen King Robert's heir would have a legal right to the aid of the Commune. And those of use who were closest to King Robert, myself among them, were made glad that His Grace had at last found at least a semblance of the love he had felt for Lyanna Stark._

_The reaction to the news of King Robert's impending marriage among our enemies may have to await further research as their archives become available for public review, but the news of their reactions that reached us was unanimous in its alarm . . ._

\- _Justice and Vengeance: The Sunset Company and the Kingdom of Myr in the Slave Wars_ by Maester Gordon, published 317 AC

The Archon of Tyrosh sat back in his chair, concealing surprise with the ease of a lifelong politician. "You cannot possibly be serious."

"Far to the contrary, Your Excellency," said Brachyllo Hestos, "we are completely serious."

The Archon fixed the Myrish triarch with a baleful stare. "Your squadron is one of the best formations in the whole _fleet_," he snapped. "Do you really think that I would let my people lose one of the most critical planks in their shield on short notice, with the _Braavosi_ preparing for war?"

"It is precisely _because_ the Braavosi are preparing for war that we wish to depart," said Noriros Brenion, who was leaning on his cane to spare his twisted leg; it was a sign of how tense the meeting was that he had not been given a chair. "The last time we faced the Braavosi and their Andal dogs we barely survived as a people, and then we faced only a tithe of the Titan's strength. There are, _right now_, two hundred and fifty great galleys either fully ready for sea or else in the last stages of fitting-out and sea trials. Before two months are out, our source expects the strength of that fleet to rise to three hundred great galleys or more, leaving aside galiots and fustas." Noriros paused, almost visibly casting about for words.

"Even leaving aside any ships that the Andals contribute," he finally went on, "it will be the greatest fleet seen in this half of the world since the Century of Blood. It will carry at least twenty-seven thousand Braavosi marines and armed rowers and probably more on the order of thirty thousand. And as I said, that number isn't considering the ships the Andals will contribute and the fighting men that will be aboard them. If Robert the Bloody adds his fleet to the mix, as he will given his upcoming marriage, then we will be facing perhaps four hundred to four hundred and fifty galleys and between thirty-eight and forty thousand men. Your Excellency's fleet has, at its fullest possible strength under current conditions, perhaps one hundred and seventy galleys and maybe ten thousand men."

"And to that fleet," Brachyllo jumped in, "we can add only four hundred men fit to fight in a sea battle like the one where we defeated Stannis, in three or four galleys. Once those men die, as they almost certainly will in such a battle . . ."

"Your line of argument precludes the possibility that we will be victorious," the Archon interrupted, twin spots of color appearing under his cheekbones. "I would have thought that the men who made our great victory possible would have more faith than to concede defeat with the battle still unfought."

"Even victories, Your Excellency, produce casualties," Noriros said waspishly. "We of Myr entered the Battle of Tyrosh with a thousand men and left it with two hundred and eighty-seven. If we sustain such a rate of losses again, _then our people will die_. Even if we retook Myr the day after such a victory was won, there would not be enough of us left to rebuild our city as it was. We would be," he paused again, striving for a suitable word, "_absorbed_, like a drop of wine in a goblet of water, by the other people who would flock to the city."

"And so you would run like a pack of whipped dogs," the Archon spat, "and abandon the people who gave you a home to replace the one you lost. Damn your souls, _we have a deal!_"

"And if we adhere to that deal, then we will be destroyed," Brachyllo snapped. "We have people among us who managed to survive one sack, Your Excellency. We will not make them suffer another. And so we_will _be sailing for Volantis before the month is out. With or without your leave."

"Not if I raise the harbor chain and order the Bleeding Tower to sink any True Myrish ship attempting to leave the harbor, you won't," the Archon said coldly.

The Myrish Triarchs froze for a long moment. Eventually Brachyllo found his voice. "You would order your soldiers to sink ships carrying women and children?" he asked softly.

"I would most certainly order them to sink ships carrying traitors," the Archon said, his voice still cold. "And if you attempt to sail without my leave, then you _are _traitors; under the terms of our deal, you get to govern yourselves according to Myrish law and in return you pay a tax and fight when called upon to defend the city and it's possessions. Lazario Ahratis, gods preserve his memory, put his signature on the paper next to mine in that very room out there," he pointed to the door that led out of his sparsely-furnished private office to the more sumptuously-appointed receiving room, "and swore upon his honor to uphold its terms. By the blood he shed in defense of this city, I hold you to that oath, _gentlemen_," he spat the term, "so that I might fulfill _my_ oath, to protect my people. I will not, _cannot_, let even the smallest of weapons slip my grasp without making full use of them. Not with this Braavosi fleet hanging over our heads."

The Myrish Triarchs stood silent, clearly non-plussed by the Archon's vehemence. "What if the fleet did not sail?" Stallen Naerolis asked finally.

The Archon blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

Stallen looked the Archon in the eyes. "What if the fleet did not sail, or was at least weakened or delayed," he said steadily. "Would that be held to satisfy the terms of our deal?"

The Archon steepled his fingers. "What did you have in mind?" he asked slowly.

Stallen told him. The Archon's jaw dropped in astonishment and Brachyllo and Noriros looked at their fellow Triarch as they might look at a madman. "You're insane," the Archon said finally, his voice shaking slightly. "Shades of hell, man, it can't be done. You'll die."

Stallen smiled wryly. "Your Excellency has some knowledge of what has happened to my family since the coming of the Andals, and the life that is left to me," he said. "I invite you to consider whether it is a life I would prefer to live out to the end."

The Archon made a gesture of concession. "Even allowing that," he said, "how would you go about it? One or two ships, I can buy easily. A few tied up on a single wharf, likewise. But blood of the gods, how do you propose to burn a _whole fleet?_"

"It will take some luck and careful management," Stallen said, nodding. "But I think it can be done. And if it cannot, then I have an alternative in mind." Again, he told the Archon. Again, the Archon's jaw dropped.

"You really are insane," the Archon said softly. "I should have you locked up, for the safety of the city."

Stallen's smile was frighteningly mirthless. "It's not your city that is responsible for what has happened to my family, Your Excellency," he said calmly. "And if what I propose works, then it will be an even greater blow than the destruction of the fleet."

The Archon stared at him over the tops of his steepled fingers for a long moment. Finally, he nodded. "I am willing to let this course you have proposed fulfill our deal," he said. "Either the first course or the alternative. The only condition I have is that of success."

Stallen shook his head. "With respect, Your Excellency, we must be allowed to sail whether I succeed or not," he said firmly. "I know that what I propose to do is, shall we say, extreme, even by the standards of this war, and what it will mean for my sisters to be related to the man who carried it out. So I trust you will agree that my price must be as steep as I can bargain for."

The Archon frowned, then nodded unwillingly. "Indeed," he said tartly. "I accept your terms, Master Naerolis. Sail to Braavos to carry out your scheme, and I shall allow True Myr to sail where they please on the next tide."

Stallen bowed formally. "Done and done, Your Excellency," he said. "I shall need the rest of today and tomorrow to settle my affairs here and arrange for the necessary materials, and then I shall sail."

XXX

Vyrenno Phasselion, Gonfalonier of the Lyseni Conclave, lowered the letter onto his desk and looked at his city's new Captain-General over the rims of his spectacles. "Well, then, Captain," he said, "it seems we have some decisions to make. Advise me, if you would."

Daario Naharis bowed shortly. "My first advice, Your Excellency, is this," he replied. "Withdraw all Lyseni ships from Tyrosh at once. Send the order today, if possible."

Vyrenno leaned back in his chair. "You would have me jettison the alliance which is the cornerstone of the city's foreign policy?"

"I would have you untie a stone from around the city's neck," Daario said. "Barring the direct intervention of the gods, Tyrosh will fall in the next war. Against the Kingdom of Myr alone they might have a chance. Against the Commune of Braavos alone they might have a chance. Against a slave rebellion alone they might have a chance. Against the Kingdom, the Commune, and their slaves all at once, or even one right after another, they don't have a minnow's chance against a shark. Even if Salladhor Saan rallies every pirate and corsair on the waves to their defense, it won't be enough; they'll fight for as long as they can win, but at the first sign of defeat they'll take their plunder and run for the horizon. And when that happens Tyrosh will fall and everyone who fights for them will die. Your Excellency knows it, I know it; gods of death, the Tyroshi themselves know it. Why else would they send away so many of their children?"

Vyrenno nodded agreement. He had seen the reports of his secret service on how many children of wealthy Tyroshi, and not just merchants and trading captains but magisters, had landed in Lys over the two months since word of King Robert's impending marriage had broken. Officially those children were visiting relatives or family friends, but his spies had noted that many of them appeared to be in possession of important family records and commercial papers, and carrying substantial amounts of money as well. The daughters of the chief shareholders of the Hastyrion Bank, who with their brothers were supposedly on the first leg of a grand tour, had spent the first night at their lodgings unpicking the hems of their dresses and removing a fortune in jewels, according to one spy, while their brothers had been carrying thousands of ducats apiece. The Lyseni branch of the Hastyrion Bank had reported receiving a rather large deposit of capital the day after they had arrived; he suspected that they had, if anything, underreported just how much capital they had received.

And while some might regard Daario's advice as advocating for the cowardly abandonment of an ally, Tyrosh was Daario's homeland. The connection was doubtless tenuous, or else he would never have gone for a sellsword, but even so the bonds of patriotism were not easily thrown off, even for a man who had been dismissed in disgrace and exiled. For Daario to be able to recommend throwing his homeland and countrymen to the wolves showed a remarkable degree of strategic detachment.

Of course, it could also be a way for him to exact revenge upon the magisters who had engineered his disgrace. In which case it would demonstrate a truly epic degree of spite.

"What do you recommend, then?" he asked. "Aside from abandoning our allies to their fate."

"Three things, Your Excellency," Daario replied. "Firstly, that we make plans to seize upon as much Tyroshi territory on the mainland as we may be able to, in the confusion that will result from their fall. We will not be able to prevent the Kingdom of Myr from seizing much of the northern Disputed Lands, but we should be able to annex Sinuessa at least, for unless I miss my guess the Myrish will be focused on the coast more than the interior."

Vyrenno nodded. "Especially since they will want to maximize the advantage gained by the availability of the Commune's war-fleet," he agreed. Left unsaid was the slight problem that doing so would be a betrayal of Lys' alliance with Tyrosh, but that alliance's days were numbered. And from a certain standpoint, they would be doing the Tyroshi in those lands a favor by keeping out from under the stag's hoof. "Continue."

"Secondly," Daario went on, "that steps be taken to prevent a slave rebellion on the mainland. And not just repressive measures, but positive measures as well."

"The Conclave will never vote to approve emancipation," Vyrennno warned him.

Daario gestured agreement. "I know, Your Excellency, which is why I did not suggest emancipation. However, a lightening of the conditions under which the slaves work should at least be granted, and perhaps a way by which slaves who keep faith with their masters and labor diligently might eventually earn their freedom."

"Indentured servitude?" Vyrenno asked, narrowing his eyes. "This might be possible. Of course, as a domestic matter it will have to be approved by the Conclave." The Gonfalonier's powers regarding foreign policy and military matters were broad, but in domestic affairs the Conclave held the upper hand and was not shy about using it.

"Third, and perhaps most importantly," Daario continued with a nod, "we must find a new ally to replace Tyrosh. One more likely to be able to stand up to both the Commune and the Kingdom."

"You mean Volantis," Vyrennno said flatly. At Daario's nod he shook his head. "The Conclave will never grant the concessions that the Triarchs will demand as the price of a military alliance."

"I submit, Your Excellency, that the Conclave would do well to contemplate the position we find ourselves in," Daario said, steel entering his voice. "Against either the Myrish or the Braavosi alone I would be confident of at least forcing a stalemate, provided of course that I had freedom of action in how I conducted the war." Vyrenno nodded; that was the condition that Daario had insisted on before accepting the Captain-Generalship, and he had decided to give it to him. Captains with experience of fighting the Andals, and even of holding their own against them for at least a time, were not so thick on the ground that one who volunteered his services could be readily passed up. "Against both of them together, on the other hand . . ." Daario shook his head. "In that event, Your Excellency, I would not be prepared to guarantee the security of either the mainland _or_ the isles. Not in the face of the Iron Legion and the Braavosi fleet acting in unison."

Vyrenno's mouth twisted. For such a young institution the Iron Legion already had a fearsome reputation, and that of the Braavosi fleet was proverbial. And for all the drilling and the brave proclamations, Vyrenno had little confidence in the ability of the militia to stand up to either of them. The only force the city had that did have his confidence, beside the fleet, was the thousand Unsullied that his agents in Astapor had been able to buy before the price had become prohibitive, and even for Unsullied forty to one was long odds. "I'll open a line of correspondence," he said. "But I doubt we'll be able to get the Triarchs to commit to anything before their war with the Qohori wraps up and that could take months, if not a year or more."

"At the very least we can start swaying them to our side," Daario said earnestly. "And from that we can build higher. We need an alliance that commits the Grand Army to our aid or the Commune and the Kingdom will eat us alive."

XXX

Salladhor Saan prided himself on his self-possession. Both because it was how he maintained his standing in the eyes of his crew and because it was a matter of personal pride that he met every crisis life threw at him with an imperturbability worthy of the ancient Stoics. And his crew appreciated it; their captain might be a peacock of a man, but he was unquestionably a _man_. Ask anyone who had seen him stare down a tavern full to bursting with riotously drunk pirates who had just been told that shore leave was canceled.

So when he looked down from the roof of the officially-on-loan Tower at Bloodstone Harbor onto the anarchy that had descended on the island's main settlement, he did so with no more than a raised eyebrow and a slight, indulgent smile. Well, you couldn't expect pirates to be as disciplined as Unsullied, could you? Most of them had become pirates precisely _because_ they'd had a bellyful of discipline, after all.

Which was not to say that pirates couldn't be disciplined, it was just that they had to be disciplined in a way that they could stomach. The articles that each crew drew up among themselves invariably acknowledged the absolute command of the captain in battle or in storm, but otherwise all affairs of moment had to be decided by a vote of the assembled officers and representatives of the crew, if not by the whole ship's company. Neither the most rabid democrat of Volantis nor the most intransigent republican of Braavos would have been out of place in a pirate crew. And while the articles regulated shipboard life as well as any other code could have, few of them said anything at all about how the ship's company was to conduct themselves on shore when they were not on the ship's business.

To make matters worse, the Brethren of the Waves were, as one Westerosi maester had described them, 'as diverse a set of rascals as any that ever put to sea'; Salladhor's flagship alone carried men from no less than fifteen different nations. Theoretically the Brethren forswore the lands that had spawned them and the allegiances and hatreds they had grown up with when they signed the articles of their crew, but such sentiments ran deep and were not easily put aside. And even where they were, they were usually replaced by a whole new set of allegiances and hatreds; the Brethren were no less prone to faction than any other nation, and feuds between captains were almost always taken up by their crews.

So, when the flotilla of fifty ships that Salladhor had been able to assemble on the basis of his name and the promise of Tyroshi gold had reached Bloodstone Harbor, the small town had become engulfed in something like an ongoing low-level riot. If it weren't for the fact that every man had been forbidden from carrying any weapon larger than a seaman's knife onshore, and if there hadn't been a nigh-constant drizzling rain that had kept the men inclined to stay indoors for the past six days, there would have been far more blood shed than the five brawls Salladhor knew about, in which four men had died and ten more had been seriously injured. Fortunately, he had been able to placate the captains of the crews involved, otherwise there really _would_ have been a riot. Just because the captains he had recruited had sworn to accept his orders in battle and agree to an equal division of any plunder taken didn't mean that they all loved each other.

Especially, he mused as he stroked his goatee, since not all of his erstwhile subordinates were equally enthusiastic about the fight they found themselves facing. A few, like Bartoleo the Black and Avary Waters, were either smart enough to agree with Salladhor that the expansion of Braavosi power threatened their very existence or simply hated the Braavosi enough that they hadn't needed much persuading. But most of them, Salladhor knew, would fight for as long as Tyrosh seemed a likely winner and then take their gains and run for it. As the saying went, there were old pirates and bold pirates, but no old bold pirates. And while the Stepstones might be the richest hunting ground in the Narrow Sea, there were other seas on the world-ocean, and other hunting grounds in them.

Which, he suspected, was at least part of the reason why so few of his fellow captains had answered his call. He had twenty ships under his personal command, and the other thirty hulls were unevenly divided between eighteen other captains, but by rights there should have been far more than that. There had been more than two hundred independent captains that he knew of plying the Narrow Sea, and more than a hundred and fifty of them concentrated in the Stepstones. But the archipelago seemed to have almost emptied over the past several months; the ships he had sent out to spread the word that Tyrosh was looking for sellsails had come back reporting that the traditional haunts and lairs of their fellow sea-rovers seemed all but abandoned. Salladhor shrugged; it was a bit much to expect the Brethren to unite, for it was proverbial that if you gathered ten pirates together and asked them what the best general-purpose sail plan was you would get ten different answers. Especially since the thought of fighting the Braavosi was one that would make even the fiercest pirate think twice; even before it's recent reawakening the Titan had been a fearsome enemy. But for the Brethren to scatter themselves in such a fashion was almost unheard-of. Only Daemon Targaryen had managed to disperse the Brethren for any length of time, and he had had a dragon to do it with.

Nor were there even Ironborn to be found. The Ironborn had been a longstanding presence in the Stepstones, especially when they were between rebellions and had to seek prey beyond Westeros. They hadn't been considered fully-fledged members of the Brethren, but they had certainly been at least friendly rivals when they hadn't been allies. The past four years, however, had seen the Ironborn forsake reaving in droves to pledge themselves to one king or another. Victarion Greyjoy had a greater name than any Ironborn since Dalton the Red Kraken, and made no secret of his ambition to pay the iron price to increase his fame; it was rumored that he had sworn to present King Robert with a Tyroshi galley for every knight of King Stannis' that had fallen in the Battle of Tyrosh. And his older brother Euron was, if anything, his equal in reputation; from a younger son with no real prospects he had risen to be King Stannis' master of ships by sole virtue of his ability, loyalty, and prowess. The Ironborn in the Narrow Sea that hadn't chosen a side before the Battle of Tyrosh had streamed to Myr and King's Landing to pledge themselves, partly to be able to bask in the reflected honor and partly because they could see that if they stayed independent then sooner or later they would have to face either Victarion or Euron. And aside from the unlikelihood of victory, the Drowned God's law was that Ironborn could not shed the blood of other Ironborn.

Nor had any Ironborn come to replace them. Ordinarily the flow of Ironborn into the Narrow Sea only stopped when winter made the seas unnavigable, but summer had months still to run, if not years, and not a single new longship had been seen in the isles in some months. Either the Ironborn had lost their taste for venture, which Salladhor would believe when pigs flew, or something very fishy was going on.

And some of the Brethren that _had_ answered his call, he was sure, would be looking for the chance to change sides. The Braavosi hated pirates only slightly less than they hated slavers, but they had a reputation for being open to negotiation. More than a few pirates who had found themselves in a tight corner had managed to buy a pardon from the Titan by giving up their fellows, or some other valuable information. Those pirates were only rarely allowed to leave the lagoon again, as the Braavosi weren't stupid, but few enough pirates managed a peaceful retirement that being able to do so was a form of triumph all its own. And Salladhor feared that his fellow captains were looking at the resurgence of the Braavosi, the awakening of the Westerosi, and the emergence of the Kingdom of Myr and coming to the conclusion that it was better to jump ship now when there was still time to negotiate than to wait too long and have nothing to bargain with. You couldn't buy your freedom by betraying another pirate if you were the last pirate left standing.

He shrugged and turned back to the stairs that led down the Tower. He had been dealing with his fellow pirates since he was old enough to walk a ship's deck; he had withstood his first attempted betrayal before he was fifteen. This situation might come with higher stakes, but it would be nothing new.

XXX

Donys Rahtheon's calm face as he poured himself his customary afternoon glass of watered wine masked a turbulent mind. The news from the west hadn't improved since the Dragon Company had ensconced itself in Volantene service. Not only was the Kingdom of Myr growing more powerful almost by the month thanks to the stream of immigrants that poured into its harbor, but the Usurper's impending marriage bade fair not only to solidify his adventurer's gains into a dynastic inheritance but also to irreversibly bind the Titan to his side. And the news from across the Narrow Sea was even more depressing; not only had the Crackclaw Point rising been definitively crushed, but Queen Cersei was pregnant _again_, thus solidifying the position of the junior branch of the Baratheons even further.

He sipped at his glass moodily, staring at the map of western Essos that dominated one wall of his modestly appointed office as his mind turned over the new information. On the one hand, he would not enjoy appraising Ser Arthur of the Baratheons' good fortune, for the Lord Commander was increasingly short-tempered about such news. On the other hand, at least the news supported Donys' own conclusions about the Company's situation.

There were two schools of thought about the Company's long-term strategy. Both agreed that the endgame should be the reconquest of Westeros and the reinstallation of the Targaryen dynasty on the Iron Throne, but they differed on when that should occur and what the Company should do in the meantime. The first school, which called itself the Restorationist and was helmed by Ser Arthur, argued that the reconquest should be undertaken by no later than Viserys' twentieth nameday and that in the meantime the Company should keep itself as detached and footloose as possible, in order to be able to exploit any opportunity that might arise to return to Westeros. The second school, which called itself the Valyrian, was if anything even more ambitious, if differently so. That the ultimate goal should be the reconquest of Westeros was unquestioned, but why should the dynasty stop there? As the last heirs of Old Valyria left standing, were not the Targaryens rightfully the rulers of Essos as well as Westeros? That being the case, the logic ran, the Company's short-term goal should be to form a power base in Essos that could be used to support the reconquest of Westeros, with the eventual goal of planting the standard of the three-headed dragon from Lannisport to New Ghis.

Donys considered himself the head of the Valyrian school, and had come to two conclusions regarding the Company's short-term objectives. Firstly, the existence of the Valyrian faction had to be kept as secret as possible, for any Targaryen kingdom of the East would have to include Volantis if it was to be a long-term concern and the Triarchs would not look kindly on any plans to supplant them. Arthur's report of the Battle of Chroyane had confirmed his worst fears of the Triarchs' plans for the tiger cloaks, and he had no illusions that they would not do the same thing to the Dragon Company if they too-obviously strained at their leash.

Secondly, when the time did come for the Company to execute its plans, it had to mark its emergence by destroying all opposition within the city. In consequence, Donys could find it in his heart to welcome not only the news of the Baratheons' good fortune, but also the news of the tiger cloaks' destruction. The tiger cloaks had been numerous and potent enough that they could have presented an insurmountable obstacle to any seizure of power by the Dragon Company, especially if the Golden Company had come to the defense of the Triarchs as well. But with the tiger cloaks being destroyed, and the Golden Company reportedly drifting towards a rapprochement if Ser Arthur's correspondence was to be believed, then the only obstacles remaining in their way were the Unsullied and the Militia, and Donys was fairly sure that careful planning and careful management could neutralize both.

To begin with, the Militia was primarily being trained by men seconded from the Dragon and Golden Companies, so the habit of obeying men wearing Targaryen colors was already being instilled. In addition to which, the Militia was primarily composed of men from the middle orders of Volantene society, families that were well-off but not rich enough to count as magisters, much less as Old Blood. Some of them even had relatives in the Dragon and Golden Companies, given their recruitment drives before the war, and those that didn't had more in common with the knights and minor aristocrats of the Companies than they did with the Old Blood, who considered them a lower form of life for not being able to trace their ancestries back to Old Valyria.

More to the point, despite the city's recent martial turn, the Old Blood seemed content to ensconce themselves behind the Black Walls and soldier as a blood-sport more than a serious matter. The tigers might vaunt the martial glory of their ancestors, but those that Donys had seen march out of the northern gates had done so as cohort commanders or aides to General Maegyr, riding fine bloodstock horses and wearing magnificently decorated plate armor while their soldiers marched on their own feet and wore plain brigandines. To be sure the Companies' officers also rode good horses and wore fine armor, but they had the reputation to ground the display. Aside from traditional habits of obedience and bonds of patronage, there was precious little to bind the Old Blood officers to their citizen-soldiers, for whom the current string of wars was a deadly serious matter indeed. The Black Walls might be impregnable, but the walls around the rest of the city were not so reputed, and the stories from the Disputed Lands made very clear what fate the burghers of Volantis could expect at the hands of a slave uprising, much less an invasion by the Iron Legion.

And those stories were being refreshed and expanded upon by the Tyroshi who had started streaming into the harbor, bearing word that the Kingdom of Myr, already considered an abode of devils and a habitation of monsters, was now allied with Braavos, the old enemy. Donys had also reached out to his countrymen who had previously taken refuge in Tyrosh to offer them a new shelter, both out of genuine concern and fellow-feeling and also to fan the flames of agitation that the Tyroshi exodus was sparking. Part of bringing the Militia onboard, and also of reconciling the Volantene people to a foreign upstart, would be presenting them with what his mathematics tutor had called a binary solution set; they could put their trust in King Viserys, or they could take their chances with a barbarian invasion whose first goal would be to kill every freeman in sight.

The Unsullied presented a harder challenge, but ironically a simpler one. All that was needed was to acquire the authority to give them orders and they could be at least neutralized until things were settled. A failure to do so, of course, would make matters highly dangerous, especially since the confines of the city streets would play to the Unsullied's discipline and skill at close-order fighting, but Donys did not plan to fail.

Any reasonable strategist would have dubbed the plans an exercise in madness, but Donys was convinced that they were the only plans that afforded the Targaryen dynasty any hope of long-term success. The Blackfyres had played it safe when they were exiled, and in three short generations they had degenerated into only another company of mercenaries in a land full of them. Donys would not let the king he had sworn himself to become another sellsword, nor would he let his granddaughter be a mercenary's whore. The only way to forestall such a decline was to strike boldly and let not a single opportunity pass.

Of course, those plans were contingent upon the Dragon Company coming out of the current war not only victorious, but covered in glory. Donys glowered at the stretch of the Rhoyne between Chroyane and Dagger Lake. The reports of the Battle of Chroyane had been uniformly positive, but that had been against an advance guard only. The main Qohori army had yet to be attended to. Donys had never been much given to nerves, but that was because he was so good at planning and unfortunately planning only took you so far in the game of thrones. You could plan a maneuver down to the second, but sooner or later you had to roll the iron dice and pray that they came up sixes.

_It was only in these days, after Myr had been irreparably lost and Tyrosh stood on the brink of the abyss, that the leaders of the Free Cities truly realized that the old era with its limited wars was dead and buried, and a new age of annihilation had dawned. To their credit, when they realized that if they did not change their assumptions about and practices of warfare then they would perish, they adapted swiftly . . ._

\- _Soldier of Fortune: The Memoirs of Daario Naharis_


	69. Chapter 69: The Bloody Dagger

Taraban Hyrgos, Grand Commander of the Army of Qohor, glowered from the ramparts of Fort Dagger at where the Grand Army of Volantis was encamped a mile away from the fort. They might have taken casualties in Ahrah's criminally reckless attack, but they still numbered more than thirty thousand men, and their fleet had reportedly been untouched. "Damn you, Ahrah," he snarled under his breath. "Your orders were to observe and harass, not fight and die."

"If you had sent Ahrah and his force into the mists with proper protection, as I recommended," came a dry, pedantic voice behind him, "he might have remembered those orders."

Hyrgos' hand tightened on the pommel of his sword. "I do not recall soliciting your advice, priest," he said coldly. "Nor were you given any power of command by the Council of Nobles. You are here to minister to the soldiers _only_."

"And you prevented me from doing so by refusing to let any of my fellows join Ahrah's force," the priest said reasonably. "Ever since Garin the Great raised the waters of Mother Rhoyne with his curse, the Sorrows have been a haunt of the weird and the unnatural. To send soldiers of the city into such a place without the means to protect themselves against such . . ." the priest clicked his tongue. "As well to have sent them into battle without shields or armor. Their deaths would have been kinder than those they found in the mists."

Hyrgos turned to glower at the priest, who stared back at him serenely from under his cowl, which concealed everything from his eyebrows upwards but did nothing to hide his bristling beard and almost unnaturally _certain_ eyes. "If you want an opportunity to make up for that misfortune," he said, suppressing anger behind a mask of calm, "then I hereby grant you one. Call up the Black Goat and have him crush the Volantenes to dust."

The priest narrowed his eyes. "Do not, I pray you, make mockery of the god," he said testily. "He moves in His own ways, and aids His followers, or aids them not, as it pleases Him." He shrugged. "Nevertheless, I shall invoke Him, and summon what aid I can. It would be easier if a fitting offering were at hand."

Hyrgos nodded grudgingly. "There are a pair of attempted deserters who were caught in the act awaiting punishment, along with a thief," he said. "Take them if you want; I will need all the horses I have for this battle, unless I miss my guess."

The priest nodded. "We will hold the sacrifice at sundown," he said, his fingers twitching at the ends of his voluminous sleeves. "Shall I reserve a place among the witnesses for you?"

Hyrgos nodded. "I will attend," he promised, "barring the exigencies of battle." As the priest turned and strode away (omitting even a polite nod, much less the customary bow) Hyrgos turned back to glare at the Volantenes. He was a devout man, in his way, but he had little taste for the theatrics of the Black Goat's priesthood. If nothing else they seemed to take too much joy in the helplessness of their sacrifices. He shrugged to himself; in any case, he had to afford the priest the necessary courtesies. The struggle between the army and the priesthood was an old one, and bitter, but it was one conducted behind closed doors. It was unseemly, and potentially dangerous, to admit to division before outsiders.

Especially since Qohor was nowhere near the most populous of the Free Cities. The Black Goat was choosy in His followers, and his dictates were stringent enough that few from beyond His city willingly chose to serve him. Where Volantis could muster forty thousand men without especial effort, Qohor had strained itself to raise half that number from its heartland and vassal towns. Were it not for the eight thousand Unsullied that made up the core of his army, Qohor could not have dreamed of challenging Volantis for control of the Rhoyne.

And for all the faith his countrymen placed in the eunuch slave-soldiers, Hyrgos was aware that the Unsullied were of limited value. They could stand and fight shield-to-shield better than anyone, but they were only able to do it so well by virtue of _only _being able to do that one thing well. They _could _maneuver in an open-field battle, but they served best as a living fortress that the rest of an army could anchor itself on. The rigidity that their style of formation-fighting required made them unsuited to maneuvering quickly, or over broken ground, or in anything but a straight line.

Hence, he reflected, the fort he had had built. The key to any sort of battle but especially to a siege was morale, and the Unsullied could outlast the morale of any other soldiery under the sun. And the Volantenes would _have _to take his fort; if they didn't then they would be leaving a hostile force in their rear with a protected base of supply, ready to cut their supply lines and leave them stranded more than a hundred miles from their nearest support or relief. Supply had determined more campaigns than swords, and Hyrgos was ready to prove the dictum once again.

XXX

Garello Maegyr smiled slightly as he surveyed the Qohori fort from the front of his tent. "A very ugly brute, isn't it, gentlemen?" he asked lightly. "And yet, I deem, one that we will find easy enough to conquer."

"Gods be good and make it so," Ser Myles Toyne said sourly. "I thought the Qohori bastard we fought in the mists was a fool for attacking us the way he did, but if it was to gain the time to let this thing be built . . ." He twitched his head to one side in a half-shrug. "Well, it wasn't to no purpose, is all I'll say."

Fort Dagger (they had learned its name from a deserter) was a squat polygon of piled earth surrounded by the ditch that had been excavated in order to raise the ramparts. Its shape was based on a triangle pointed southward down the Rhoyne, but the point of the triangle had been chopped off and replaced with a pair of arrowhead-shaped bastions projecting outward from the two long sides of the triangle, so that it looked like the head of a two-pronged fishing spear. One of the rear points of the fort reached almost to the waters of Dagger Lake, and there was a makeshift gate both there and in between the two front bastions.

The walls of the fort weren't very high, only about eight or nine feet or so, but combined with the ditch in front of them they made for a significant obstacle, especially since they would be covered by a combination of Unsullied and crossbowmen. Nor did it help matters that the two bastions at the front of the fort were constructed in such a way that fire from one could cover the face of the other from the flank, and vice-versa, and it was close enough to the shore that the pirate galleys resting on the lake could cover the seaward face of the fort with their on-board scorpions and archers. Fort Dagger might be small, but it would be a tough nut to crack.

Fortunately, Garello knew, there was more than one way to hunt a _hrakkar_. He turned to his captains, who had assembled around the table that his slaves had set up outside his tent. "Gentlemen, I have a plan in place, but it shall require each of you to act in concert. Ser Myles, Ser Arthur, I shall need your companies to march north of the fort, and then turn inwards towards the lakeshore." His gesture on the crude map that his scribe-slave had drawn up last night described a parabolic arc around the landward side of the fort, through the shortgrass-covered flatlands that stretched from the Rhoyne to the edge of the Dothraki Sea, where the grass could grow as tall as a warhorse. "Once that maneuver is completed, your men shall begin to entrench around the fort, both facing towards and away from it. While this is going on, Commander Stasselion and the fleet will emerge from the river onto the lake, engage the pirates that the Qohori have employed, and either destroy or drive them away." With his other hand, he described another parabolic arc on the map, this one on the lake. "In this way, gentlemen, we shall cut the fort off from resupply and reinforcement by both land and sea, and force their surrender, which I expect before the sennight is up."

His Essosi captains nodded agreement; it was the classic solution to such a problem as this. Two relatively simple maneuvers would effectively neuter the only army Qohor could afford to put in the field, and essentially end the war.

Ser Arthur, on the other hand, looked dubious. "With respect, my lord," he said, "the outflanking movement seems vulnerable to me. If the Qohori have a second force in the vicinity, and if the Qohori commander in the fort is able and brave enough to seize the opportunity, then we could be caught between the hammer and the anvil." The exiled knight's gauntleted fists tapped together illustratively as Ser Myles gestured agreement.

Garello nodded. "I quite agree, Ser Arthur," he said genially, "which is why I shall arrange for the Qohori commander to be too busy to entertain such a counterstroke." He turned to Captain Harleo, who commanded the remaining tiger cloaks. "Captain, I shall require your men to launch holding attacks against the fort of sufficient vigor to both cover Ser Arthur and Ser Myles' movement and also to prevent the enemy from opening their gates to any pirates who manage to make their way to shore. It will be hard, and dangerous, but I can think of none in the army so able to do it as the Claws of Volantis. Can I depend on them to carry it out?"

Captain Harleo, a grizzled but still spry fifty-year-old whose stripes had grown mottled with age spots, straightened to a degree that looked almost painful. "We have not failed the city in a thousand years, master," he ground out. "We shall not fail now."

Garello bowed shortly. "I did not think you would," he said, injecting sincerity into his voice. "It was for that reason that I asked that so many of you be sent with me." Harleo seemed to swell slightly with pride at the compliment, but Garello didn't miss the glance that shot between Ser Arthur and Ser Myles. _Don't fear, gentlemen,_ he thought, _the Triarchs have no such plans for you. That I know of, anyway_.

XXX

Hyrgos frowned as he watched the probing attack retreat down the glacis of the rampart. _Alright, fine,_ he groused to himself, _the bastard does have an idea of what he's playing at._

That had been the third probe that the fort had withstood in the past hour. In and of themselves, none of them had been terribly significant, simply rushes up the sloping earth walls of the fort by a few hundred tiger cloaks at a time covered by crossbow fire, but together they added up to a serious effort. Especially since they were backed by a close encirclement of the fort by what seemed to be the whole force of the tiger cloaks that the Volantene general had available to him. Just a score of paces beyond the ditch the tiger cloaks had established a shield-wall, their spearmen planting their oval shields in the ground and crouching behind them while their crossbowmen loosed volleys over their heads.

It was a costly stratagem, for along with the casualties incurred by the probing attacks, the return fire of the Qohorik crossbowmen and light infantry produced a steady trickle of casualties from the surrounding tiger cloaks. But it forced Hyrgos to keep his men under cover in order to preserve them from the Volantene crossbows, and it also prevented him from dispatching a force to prevent the encircling maneuver he had spied through the dust towards the east. For one thing, any force he dispatched would most likely be cut off and pulled down unless he reinforced them. For another, the dispatch of such a force, and especially of reinforcements for it, would almost certainly provoke a general attack by the whole of the Grand Army. Fortifications could make up for relative lack of numbers, but only to a degree, even if they were defended by Unsullied. His mouth tightened in a barely-perceptible grimace; it was just like the Volantenes to abandon their usually conservative tactics just when it would be inconvenient.

It was not the way of the Qohori aristocracy to make blatant displays of emotion; it was considered to show a lack of breeding. But simply because Hyrgos didn't spit on the ground didn't mean he didn't want to.

XXX

Ser Arthur Dayne had seen enough of Garello Maegyr to concede that while the Volantene was hardly Daeron the Young Dragon or Alyn Oakenfist come again, he was at least competent as a leader of men. Nonetheless, the unconscious self-assurance of the man grated on his nerves more than a little, especially when he applied it to deeds of arms. Self-confidence was a fine quality, indeed a necessary one, in a man-at-arms, but Arthur would have preferred it if Maegyr had a little less self-confidence and a little more practical experience. He had been right in his predictions of the enemy's likely actions so far, and judging by how he managed the army his military tutors had taught him well, but Ser Arthur would never believe that everything about war could be learned solely by precept.

Moreover, there was nothing in the Dragon Company's contract about taking unwarranted risks, nor would Arthur take any even if there were. The Dragon Company was the sole force remaining to the dynasty that Arthur had sworn a sacred vow to protect with his last breath, and he had come too far and done too much to fail in his duty.

As a result, while the Dragon Company marched quickly, it did so in column of bandas, with the knights and men-at-arms on the left side of each column and the squires, valets, and archers on their right. In the event that a sally broke out of the fortress, the only orders that would need to be given would be 'halt', 'left face', 'dismount', and 'horse-holders to the rear'; that would put the company in battle array, with the knights and men-at-arms in the front line, the valets and archers backing them up, and the pages in the rear holding the horses of their lance-mates. Given the proximity of the Golden Company (they were marching side-by-side, in almost the same order) and the recent defrosting of relations between the two companies, that would give them good odds of at least surviving, if not outright defeating, any attempt at interfering with their maneuver.

Which, of course, presumed that the enemy would actually make such an attempt. Which they hadn't, so far, despite the fact that any man with eyes and a brain could see what they were attempting to do. Yet the Qohori commander seemed content to sit in his fort and let the Grand Army tighten the noose about him. Arthur turned to Ser Myles, who was riding beside him. "What in the Seven Hells is the bugger playing at?" he demanded, gesturing at the fort. "Warrior's blood, he's letting us pen him in without a fight! Any Westerosi commander would have at least sallied by now, if not met us in the open field!"

Ser Myles shrugged, no small feat in full plate. "This is the way of war, here," he said simply. "Or it was before the Sunset Company came. Don't fight if you can help it, and when you have to fight do so intelligently. Never fight when you can bluff, never bluff when you can maneuver. There's no profit in dead bodies, especially since no mercenary company worth the name will agree to a contract that doesn't allow them to collect the last month's pay owed to any dead." At Arthur's surprised look he shrugged again. "It's how their funerals are paid for, as well as any outstanding debts they leave behind."

Arthur frowned pensively. "I suppose that makes sense," he allowed. "But he should at least be attempting to break out of the tiger cloaks' cordon, instead of hunkering down like a turtle in its shell."

"The tiger cloaks will have to fall back from the ditch sooner or later," Ser Myles observed, "unless Chroyane gave them all a death wish. The Qohori probably figures that he can use his fleet to keep the fort supplied, and the fact of his army's existence to pin us here while his city tries to raise a force to come to his aid, and until then he doesn't gain anything by exposing his soldiers. It's why he put that fort so close to the water, not simply to be able to control and tax passing river traffic. On the other hand, when _our _fleet breaks out of the river and gets into the lake . . ."

Arthur nodded. _Now _he was able to see the sense behind Maegyr's plan, with matters spelled out for him like that. Of course, it depended on the river fleet pulling its share of the weight.

XXX

The pirates of Dagger Lake were in every sense of the term a motley crew. It was a rare man among them, aside from the captains and a few lucky or thrifty officers, who had a breastplate; brigandines and mail-shirts were more common. Some, either by reason of poverty, extreme bravery, or incipient madness, fought almost entirely unarmored. They were raiders, not soldiers, was commonly the argument of such men, and so armor was as much hindrance as help, especially when approaching a vessel or lakeside camp by stealth. And in any case, it was better by far, they often went on, to rely on speed, shock, and ferocity to break the will of their victims to resist than to be so slowed by armor that the targeted crew had the opportunity to regain their courage and fight back.

Most pirates, being reasonably sane men, thought that such men were insane, but since they often insisted on being among the first to board their madness was indulged; better for a victim who did fight back to kill them, the thinking ran, rather than someone in full possession of their wits. The men who plied the riverine trade tended to be smart, tough, and either well-armed, fast, or stealthy; the few hard women who captained river-boats had those qualities to a degree that few men could hope to match. Such people often did fight back, on the theory that if you held the pirates away from your helmsman long enough for him to get you away from the pirates' galley, then you stood decent odds of preserving your craft, your profit, and your life.

As a consequence of all this the pirates of Dagger Lake, thanks to the principles of natural selection, were as hard and warlike as any nation of thieves in the world and more than many, and possessed a practical knowledge of aquatic irregular warfare that had few equals. Someone who needed to acquire a riverine fleet on short notice could do much worse than to engage a few dozen captains as sellsails on the strength of a pardon for past crimes, a monthly subsidy, and a share of any loot. Such a fleet would have been extremely difficult for most nations to counter, but the tigers of Volantis had foreseen the possibility that Qohor would raise such a fleet, and taken measures to counter it.

The Volantene fleet was less storied than that of Braavos, but that was due to circumstances beyond the fleet's control. For one thing, Volantis had few overseas colonies and outposts, and so the Volantene fleet tended to be homebodies compared to the wide-ranging Braavosi. For another, while Braavos was a city of the sea, and depended on its fleet for its prosperity, security, and martial reputation abroad, Volantis was a fundamentally landward-looking city, where the fleet was very much the junior service to the army.

Reputation aside, the Volantene fleet was one of the three or four most powerful fleets in the Narrow Sea and its vicinity. It didn't have the same level of seamanship as the Braavosi, but what they lacked in ability they made up for in the heaviness of their ships and the valor and equipment of their naval infantry. Each Volantene marine wore plate half-armor consisting of breast-and-back, ringmail sleeves, tassets, and kettle helmet. Only Braavos was rich enough to give each of its naval infantrymen a similar degree of protection.

The great galleys of the seagoing fleet were too long and too deep-drafted to sail far up the Rhoyne, but Volantis had already had a small fleet of river galleys before the war, and it had built many more on short notice by dint of throwing manpower and resources at the problem. When those new galleys were finished, they had been loaded with approximately an eighth of Volantis' naval infantry, five thousand of the heaviest marines in the world. These were men thoroughly schooled in the uniquely ferocious art of shipboard combat, bearing heavy armor and carrying heavy weapons; crossbows that could punch a bolt in one side of a small boat and out the other, half-pikes, and heavy cleaver-like falchions.

When the Volantene river fleet came out of the mouth of the Rhoyne and rushed the pirate flotilla, the pirates gave way before them, intending to lure them into over-extending and then picking them off as they isolated themselves in a running battle. The problem with that plan was that the Volantene river fleet didn't just carry marines. Each river galley also carried a heavy springald in the bows, a giant crossbow capable of throwing a five-pound bolt sixty yards. When such a bolt hit a pirate galley, invariably lightly built for speed and maneuverability, the result was often catastrophic; a five-pound bolt could splinter a mast, shatter a rudder, or crack a keel if it hit just so. When men were struck by such projectiles, they _splashed_.

Only three pirate galleys, it was later determined, were sunk by the fire of the springalds, but many more were dismasted or had their oar-banks knocked out of action. These, falling behind their fleeing mates, were easy prey for the Volantene galleys and their armored marines, who rampaged through the pirates like steel-clad wolves. Those pirates who managed to escape both bombardment and boarding, and there were more than a few, made a hasty calculation of the relative merits of discretion and valor and came to the conclusion that they weren't being paid enough to face such odds; they redoubled their efforts and fled before the Volantene river fleet, assisted by a stiff breeze out of the south-east that filled their sails. There would be other contracts, and in the meantime there were always their usual prey.

For an irregular and slapdash force, their retreat was remarkably disciplined; there was none of the wild tacking in every direction that a truly disorganized force would have engaged in and which would have caused potentially fatal collisions and the pirates even maintained a semblance of a formation, even if it was more of an amorphous blob than a neat affair of lines and columns. This was due to the nature of the pirates of Dagger Lake, and the environment that spawned them. Unlike the sea-rovers, who had the whole of the world-ocean to roam in and so were fostered in a freewheeling, chaotic environment where everyone was free to blaze their own trail, the pirates of Dagger Lake had to exist within an ecosystem that, by comparison, was so sharply circumscribed as to be nigh-claustrophobic. This cramped existence, confined to one relatively small lake and several-score miles of river with three powerful and perennially hostile nations penning them in, had bred a far more competitive and, paradoxically, a far more cooperative breed of pirate than that found in the Stepstones or the Basilisk Isles. You could not survive as a pirate on the Rhoyne if you were weak, but you also couldn't survive as a pirate on the Rhoyne if you could not, on occasion, leave by old feuds and stand with your fellow pirates against outsiders. It was this combination of natural selection for toughness, ferocity, cunning, and cooperativeness that had kept Dagger Lake free from law for so many years, despite being coveted by Volantis, Qohor, and Norvos all at once.

The pursuit lasted only half an hour before Commander Stassellion recalled his galleys with trumpet blasts and furiously waving signal flags; discipline in the Volantene fleet was ferociously strict. Only four hours after the initial attack, the fleet was executing the other part of it's share of the plan. Two-thirds of the river galleys took up a patrol pattern to guard the mouth of the river and the transport barges while covering the lakeward flank of the fort, while the other third beached themselves a safe distance from the fort and disembarked their marines. As the naval infantry clattered down the gangplanks and formed up by companies, the rower-slaves began to dismount the heavy springalds from the bows of each galley under the direction of the boatswain and lower them to the beach.

XXX

_Early the next morning . . ._

Hyrgos frowned at the letter that lay before him on the small table that was the centerpiece of his command tent. Most of his distemper was the simple fact that he hadn't gotten much sleep the night before; the Volantenes had continued their probing attacks through the night and into the small hours of the morning, forcing him to remain awake and ready to command the garrison. If he had gone to sleep and the fort had been stormed afterwards, he would have deserved to be hanged, with a short drop.

The rest of his foul mood was due to the contents of the letter.

_Dear Ser, _it read, in flowery formal calligraphy. _Allow me to offer my compliments upon a determined and skillful defense. That the fortunes of war have fallen out the way they have is, I am prepared to testify, no actionable fault of yours. Howbeit, the fact remains that those fortunes have most decisively turned against you. Your army is surrounded within the fort, I am reliably informed that your supplies of food and water are not sufficient to withstand a siege of more than five days' duration, and your allies and auxiliaries have abandoned you. I declare further, upon my honor, that my scouts have detected no trace of any supporting or relieving force in the immediate vicinity and that my captains have unanimously assured me that this siege may be maintained for the foreseeable future._

_Therefore, in order to prevent any further effusion of blood, which in these circumstances must be as uncivilized and ungentlemanly as it would be unnecessary and unprofitable, I hereby request the voluntary surrender of the forces and fortifications under your command. I declare, upon my honor, that your person, your officers, and your soldiers shall be treated in full accordance with the customary conventions and usages regarding prisoners of war, and that no egregious or unwarranted insult or injury shall befall you, save as punishment for misconduct or attempted escape without parole._

_Trusting that your reason and humanity shall swiftly guide you to take the course of action that these circumstances demand, I shall await your reply by the same officer that conducted this letter, who has my every confidence in his ability and discretion._

_I remain, in the meantime, your humble servant,_

_Garello Maegyr,_

_True Scion of that Most Ancient and Noble House,_

_Descended in the Right Line from Old Valyria,_

_Prefect of the Tenth Ward of the City of Volantis,_

_Vice-Captain of the Sword-Bearing Guard of the Triarchs,_

_Proconsul of the Northern Territories,_

_Captain-General Commanding,_

_Grand Army of Volantis._

Hyrgos stood forcefully and stalked around his table. The letter's formal language did not hide the fact that it was a bare-faced demand to surrender or face the consequences. It might not have listed any consequences for refusing to surrender, but Hyrgos knew what to expect if he did. All yesterday afternoon he had watched as the Volantenes had dismounted the heavy springalds from their galleys and emplaced them in batteries dispersed through their lines. He had a few heavy springalds of his own, but not enough to win a shooting contest against the thirty Volantene engines that had already been disembarked, much less the sixty or more that remained on the Volantene ships. If he told this Maegyr to go jump in the lake, then the next communication he could expect from him would be a barrage of five-pound bolts traveling at high velocity.

It was possible, he supposed, that he might be able to withstand a bombardment; packed earth was much more resistant to missiles than stone or even brick, and especially to bolts as opposed to stone or iron balls. But he wouldn't be able to withstand a blockade. Whatever deserters or spies had given Maegyr his information had spoken truly; he had a total of four days' worth of food, maybe as many as seven or eight if he ordered the army's draft animals slaughtered. Even more distressing, he had perhaps two days' worth of water at careful rationing. There had been no call to dig wells inside the fort, with the lake so close, and the fort's water needs had been supplied by filling canteens and barrels by hand while a pump was sent for from the city. Not even Unsullied could go without water for more than two days or so, especially not if they were fighting as well; dehydration was no respecter of persons. And while Hyrgos _could _try digging a well now, it would be a much more difficult task while under bombardment, and there was no guarantee that they would strike water.

He spat, heedless of the fine rug covering the floor of the tent; he had always hated losing, even in small matters. For a defeat of this nature, on this scale, he could expect to be broken and exiled in disgrace, if not thrown to the priests as a sacrifice to the Black Goat.

_I obeyed the orders given me, and did what seemed best at the time with the knowledge and resources available to me, _he decided. _For the rest, I will answer to the Goat._ He sat down, drew a piece of paper across the table towards him, dipped his quill in his inkpot, and began to write.

_Dear ser,_

_Having received your communication of this past hour, and having carefully considered every practicable course of action available to me, I grant your request for the voluntary surrender of this command . . ._

XXX

As Garello Maegyr and the chief of the Qohori delegation strode out from the luxurious pavilion that had been set up where the River Qhoyne flowed into Dagger Lake and ceremonially embraced each other before the assembled Grand Army, Ser Myles Toyne turned his horse and raised his gauntleted hand. "Three cheers for the Captain-General!" he roared, his deep voice crashing out over the serried ranks. "_Ave!_"

"_Imperator!" _the army thundered back, honoring Garello with the ancient Valyrian title for a victorious general.

"_Ave!_" Ser Myles bellowed again.

"_Imperator!"_

_"__Ave!"_

_"__Imperator!"_ The drumbeat discipline of the formal salute broke down into general cheering as the soldiers beat spear-shafts against shields, the knights of the Golden and Dragon Companies beat their gauntleted fists against their breastplates, and the army's trumpeters sounded the charge in celebration of victory.

The quartet of horsemen sitting their horses off to one side did not join in the salute or the general cheering; for one thing, none of them knew what the words meant. For another, they wouldn't have cared even if they had known. This war hadn't been theirs, nor did three out of the four strictly care who had won. Squabbles between walkers were of no concern to Dothraki, unless it made one group or another of them easier prey. The mere fact that the majority of the army standing before them were infantry only solidified their contempt; among their people only slaves and women walked. Free men, and especially men of name or worth, rode. So the three horsemen looked on the army with scorn, concealed only by the reserve their nation considered proper to show before strangers on occasions such as this.

The fourth horseman, who sat his horse a little ahead of his three compatriots, was of a different stamp. He was young, but his braid was already long and jingled with bells. He was of forbidding aspect, with plainsman's wrinkles already spidering over his strong cheekbones and furrowing his high forehead, but he was a man that would attract long looks regardless. For in him the wiry strength of his people reached a degree rarely seen even among the khals and their bloodriders; at twenty years of age he was already as tall as any other man in his khalasar and taller than many, with a breadth of shoulder and a depth of chest that men of more settled nations could rarely hope to achieve unless they too were men bred to war. He sat his horse with the unconscious ease of the born-and-bred nomad, held himself with the thoughtless poise of a natural fighter and athlete, and his black eyes glittered with a native intelligence that belied his heavy brow and unconsciously ferocious cast of face. He was Drogo, son of Barbo, and for all that he was the youngest khal on the Dothraki Sea he was already one of the strongest and most far-famed.

"So the Volantenes have won," he observed to his bloodriders without taking his eyes off the Grand Army. "That may be less-than-good hearing."

Behind him Qotho snorted. "We should care that one lot of walkers has beaten another?" he asked sarcastically. The Dothraki were a reverent people, when the occasion called for it, but they were not given to subservience. Especially not men such as Qotho, with the skill and the innate aggression necessary to become a bloodrider. "Let them beat each other, I say. The fatter they become, the tastier they will be when the time of bow and arakh comes."

Drogo nodded minutely. "We should care," he said, simply but no less forcefully. "This is not mere greed that sets them against each other; there is something else here. Something that makes my liver itch." A man of Westeros would have said 'makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up'.

"They are still walkers," Qotho said dismissively. "Geldings and women, every one of them. Not a true man to be found among them." He spat audibly.

"Khal Zirqo would disagree with you," Cohollo said softly. "As would his riders, if they still lived."

"Zirqo was old and weak," said Haggo. "Our khal is young and strong. We will ride them down like the marmot-runts they are."

"In time," Drogo said, leaving unsaid that he had no quarrel with the new walkers of Myr that he saw. If the rumors about the circumstances of Zirqo's death were true, on the other hand, then that would change. "But first we shall watch these walkers, and see what they do. This land will be as good a place to spend the winter as any."

His bloodriders clicked their tongues in agreement; they were far enough south, and close enough to the ocean, to escape the winter storms that could make the Dothraki Sea one of the deadliest places in the world, the killing blizzards that could bury a khalasar in snow over their heads in a single night and the abyssal cold that could freeze a mounted rider solid where his horse stood. Here the weather would be positively warm, and the grazing plentiful. There were still some months to go yet before winter hit, if the shaman was correct in his readings, but he had never been wrong about weather predictions before and he had served Drogo's father Barbo, and Barbo's father before him.

Drogo turned his horse with no more than a slight change of pressure in his thighs and calves, almost imperceptible even to a trained observer. "Come," he said. "I have seen enough of these walkers." His bloodriders wheeled their horses into formation around and behind him and followed him back to the khalasar's encampment at the trot.

XXX

_The Battle of Dagger Lake cleared the way for the Grand Army of Volantis to march on Qohor itself, an action it was only prevented from doing by the arrival in camp of a delegation of Qohori nobles and priests seeking terms of truce. Those terms, which became the foundation for the Peace of Chroyane, were as follows._

_1\. That Qohor abandon all proprietary claims on the River Rhoyne and its navigation south of Dagger Lake._

_2\. That Qohor surrender to Volantis all the Unsullied in General Hyrgos' army, and agree to pay a war indemnity of two hundred thousand gold honors._

_3\. That Volantis gain the right to tax and regulate commerce along the River Rhoyne from the outflow of Dagger Lake southwards, along with the right to settle along the river's banks and in its floodplain in that area. In aid whereof, Fort Dagger is transferred to Volantene control in perpetuity._

_4\. That Qohor surrender half of its yearly production of raw timber to Volantis for the next twenty years at one-fourth of market price per hundredweight._

_These terms may have been harsh, but the Qohori were only too willing to accept them. As one nobleman was heard to comment to one of his fellows, "Better to have a fraction of something than the entirety of nothing." With Qohor's field army so neatly wrapped up and casualties among the Grand Army relatively low, the Qohori delegation had no wish at all to prolong the war until the Grand Army reached Qohorik territory proper and began the devastation that was usual of warfare throughout the world. Especially since Hyrgos' army had contained four-fifths of all the Unsullied in Qohori service, thereby crippling the Qohori military establishment for lack of high-quality heavy infantry until they could be replaced. Nor did Qohor have any allies in a position to render aid in time; Qohor was famously standoffish with the other Free Cities, and their feud with Volantis aside they had spent most of their existence at daggers drawn with Norvos, over religious differences, and Braavos, over trading and territorial and fishing rights._

_And as harsh as the terms might have been, they were much better than those that the Qohori could have expected from an enemy such as the Kingdom of Myr, and they knew it. Just to start with, they said nothing about slavery . . ._

\- _The Last Sane War: The River War of 287 _by Maester Andrews, published 1066 AC


	70. Chapter 70: Something Old, Something New

Lord Eldon Estermont stood from the bench where he had awaited his royal grandson's pleasure as a servant gestured for his attention, taking a moment to direct a mental curse at the way his hips and back seemed to stiffen at the least provocation these days. He had always been a man of action, never letting a day go by without exercising with his household knights for at least two hours, and he had kept up the habit even when his hair had started turning grey. In truth, he could still keep pace with his knights, as he had proven at Solva, but it got harder and harder every year; some of them were almost indecently fast these days and it took every scrap of his experience to make up for the way his limbs had slowed.

Yet for all that he still cut a fine figure as he followed the servant into his grandson's solar, a burly, grizzled bear of a man whose doublet and hose were cut to show his blocky figure to advantage. His grandson also looked uncommonly fine as he rose to greet him; his close-trimmed beard had filled out nicely for a man who was only just past his twenty-first nameday, and his doublet and shirt didn't do much to conceal the power of his muscular build. Eldon made to bend the knee, but was forestalled by Stannis' impatient wave. "Come, grandfather," he said, "you of all my lords need never kneel to me; I was raised better than to demand such of my elders. And in any case, this is not a formal meeting."

Eldon straightened and embraced his grandson; the boy who had been so stiff after his parents' death had become a stern man, but he had lost at least some of that boyish stiffness. "Then what brings me here from Greenstone?" he asked. "Everything is well with Her Grace, I trust?"

"For now, by the grace of the Gods old and new," Stannis replied, his brow furrowing. "Although Pycelle claims that she is carrying heavier than in her previous pregnancies, and believes it possible she may be carrying twins." He shook his head. "Cersei claims to be undaunted by it, but she tires more easily as well. I fear that this pregnancy may be one too many in too few years, grandfather, especially if it is twins."

Eldon placed his hand on Stannis' shoulder in commiseration; the queen had done her duty well to so quickly provide children to fill House Baratheon. But a woman's struggles in the birthing chamber were a battle as perilous as any clash of arms and Eldon knew as well as any knight the importance of being able to recover between enemies. To leap into battle after battle with little rest... "The gods call us all to their sides sooner or later, grandson," he said roughly. "If Cersei's time comes, then even you can do nothing to prevent it, king though you be. Let the gods take her, and rejoice that she gave you your son and daughter before she was called."

"So the High Septon has counseled me," Stannis said, "though it sits ill with me to let the gods take my wife and do _nothing_." He shook himself, Eldon remained silent while the king gathered himself; it was a sore subject for any husband worth the name after all. He himself had not been fit company for man nor beast for a full year after his wife died. "But that is not why I called you here, grandfather. You have heard, I trust, that Robert is to marry?"

"I have," Eldon replied, smiling. "Not before time, either, as I told him when I was in Myr. Will you be sending an ambassador?"

Stannis made a face. "Alas, I cannot. So long as this schism in the Faith continues unhealed, regular diplomacy between the Seven Kingdoms and Myr are more or less impossible. The High Septon's goodwill and support are, for the time being, too valuable to jeopardize by exchanging ambassadors with a kingdom that has, by the High Septon's reports, all but fallen to heresy. He claims it is only for the sake of those in Myr who still hold to the Great Sept and the cause of Holy Freedom that he does not take harsher measures."

Eldon frowned. "Bugger the High Septon," he said bluntly. "Robert's _family_."

"I would dearly like to, grandfather, but so long as I find myself straddling a keg of wildfire _I can't_," Stannis gestured at the north wall of the solar. "Reformist preachers are already walking the streets of Gulltown, preaching resistance against 'unFaithful' rulers. Denys Arryn is keeping a lid on the pot for now, but I fear it is only because the High Septon has declared that any who stand with the Reformists will be considered a heretic subject to the traditional punishments reserved for such, and the smallfolk heed his words. If the High Septon were to withdraw his support..."

Stannis led Eldon over to the west wall of his solar, where a map of the Seven Kingdoms was displayed across half the wall-space. "The realm is young as such things are measured, grandfather," he explained, gesturing at the map, "less than three centuries of unity against ancient divisions that are still remembered too well in too many places, even if they have been officially forgotten. The Seven Kingdoms were forged into one by dragonfire, and even Aegon and his sisters faced long ordeals and deadly enemies in doing it. When the dragons died out the Targaryens ruled by the bonds of loyalty to their dynasty that had been forged prior to the loss of their dragons and by the fear or reverence that the blood of Old Valyria could still inspire in men of other lineages."

"In overthrowing the Targaryens root and branch, we gave up any chance of taking the legitimacy they had built up for our own. House Baratheon rules Westeros by the sword, grandfather, and by nothing else. But the sword can only do so much. When Robert left for Essos, Oberyn Martell challenged us. When I was defeated at Tyrosh, the Point Lords attempted to make demands of the crown in its own fief. Rule based solely on the sword falters the moment any vassal with ambition or grievance sees the slightest ghost of weakness in your sword hand."

Stannis made a gesture of concession as Eldon opened his mouth to protest. "I doubt not that the Stormlands are loyal, grandfather; those you cannot persuade see that Renly will be their lord when he comes of age, and are content that House Baratheon will not forget them. And with my New Nobles I have made the Crownlands _mine_, a possession cemented by the recent insurrection. But elsewhere?"

He shrugged. "The Westerlands are loyal to Tywin Lannister and he is our ally, but if matters take a turn for the worst, he will look to himself and his own house before any other. And outside the Westerlands the Old Lion is hated or at least distrusted from the wall to the Red Sands; drawing him close will drive many others away. The Vale will be loyal so long as the Arryns maintain their rule, but that rule may not be as reliable as it once was if things continue as they are."

He gestured at the southern half of the map. "Mace Tyrell is sincere in his loyalty, unless I am _very _much mistaken, but his house commands the loyalty of perhaps a third of the Reach if all the false protestations are disregarded. The rest is divided between those who plot against him, and by extension me, and the vultures who say much and do little until they can feast on the defeated. In the Riverlands, the friendship of the Tullys earns me the ire of the Freys for old grudges; and likewise from one end of that kingdom to the other. Every ally secured earns the dynasty the discontent of their foes. Not for nothing, grandfather, did the Riverlands fall to the Durrandons and then the Hoares by treachery. Dorne is well in hand, but only because the strength of the dynasty is so clearly uppermost within it; if that strength is seen to reduce then we may yet invite peril.

He moved his hand northward. "The North does not hate me; but neither, I think, does it love me enough to stir itself save when its own interests are clearly threatened. Brandon the Broken is not one to inspire a rebellion, but nor would he be able to convince his banners to spend their lives and fortunes on a distant field for a far-away king who knows little of their lands and ways. As for the Iron Isles, Lord Balon so hates me for ruling over him that he would rebel in a heartbeat if he could. Only the fact that so many of his reavers have joined Robert in Myr has forced him to stay his hand thus far."

Stannis lowered his hand and turned to face Eldon. "The unity of the Realm is a gambler's bluff, grandfather; it stands because no one has yet had the strength or the courage to call it out for the mummery it is. Even with no grand foe to unite our enemies against us the situation is not far short of dire; the mightiest stag can be dragged down and torn to shreds by a pack of mangy dogs who agree on nothing save they want to feast on venison. I have high hopes for Lyonel, but a man does not build his policy on hopes and dreams for days to come. He must build them on the reality in front of him and the achievable ways he can alter it. Strength and justice are not enough to build a legacy upon, but _faith_, on the other hand . . ."

Stannis shrugged. "The simple truth is that the Faith of the Seven is the one institution that permeates every corner of the realm from top to bottom. It even has footholds in the North and in the Iron Isles; even if it grows slowly, it still grows. The High Septon's support for the throne and his opposition to the Throne's enemies gives us a cause. It is a rare king that can inspire men to sacrifice themselves for him, but men sacrifice themselves for their gods every day. Hence the difficulty I find myself in. As an ally the High Septon can leash many of those who would tear me down, calming some and hobbling others. As an enemy he need only set snares and let me stumble to the dogs."

He made a moue of distaste. "And however much I dislike admitting it, he has already made himself useful. His cooperation with the Faith-tax not only lessened the burden on the nobles but his septons preached for men low and high born to follow the Great Sept's example. Gold for the ships flows into the treasury and shame has smothered who knows how many other tax rebellions before they have a chance to spark. Men who would not raise even a finger for my sake will take up arms because the High Septon declares me righteous and implores them to do so."

Stannis glowered at where the map's eastern edge ended, halfway across the Narrow Sea. "Does Robert even appreciate the risk of these Reformists? A corrupt Faith can be understood and bargained with, as disgusting as their excesses might be; they are _predictable_. The Reformists may be a nobler breed in some ways, but they are too bold, too ambitious, and above all too damned _passionate_ to be trusted in the Kingdoms. I can no more trust them to keep the peace and obey the laws than I can trust a madman with a loaded crossbow." He shook his head. "Robert is my brother, and master in his own house, but I regret every day that he did not simply surrender Jonothor to the fires."

Eldon nodded. Put that way, he could certainly see his grandson's point. "So you must move carefully as king. Even withholding gestures of brotherhood with your own brother."

"Aegon the Conqueror wished no one to sit his throne easily. Even with his house driven from it, it seems that his wish is honored." Stannis' mouth quirked into a lopsided half-smile. "If, on the other hand," he went on, "Robert's grandfather and youngest brother were to visit Myr to offer their congratulations on his wedding, strictly as a family affair, then the High Septon would have no grounds to object overmuch. Even if, in the course of their conversation, they were to talk about matters where the Iron Throne and the Crown of Myr have mutual interests."

Eldon laughed. "Such matters including the rebuilding of the royal fleet and it's future fielding against the slavers, no doubt," he observed. As Stannis nodded, Eldon's brows knit. "'Youngest brother'," he mused. "You're sending Renly as well?"

"It is time he saw more of the world than Storm's End, King's Landing, and the kingsroad between the two," Stannis replied, to which Eldon gestured assent; it would also be good for Renly to start to emerge from the shadows of his brothers. "Especially given the way that things seem to be shifting in the balance of powers. Mark me, grandfather; whoever controls the Narrow Sea, and especially it's southern entrance, will be the dominant power in Westeros and western Essos for the foreseeable future; the resources and the trade are just too rich. It would be well for us if we had our rightful share of that control, or were the best of friends with those who _did_ have control."

"Even if they happen to be a pack of heretics," Eldon said, nodding. "I'll see that Robert remembers his family on this side of the Sea, grandson, never fear."

XXX

Serina glowered at her brother. "I really don't think your presence is necessary," she observed tartly.

Adaran raised his hands defensively. "Not my decision to make, sister," he replied. "Ser Gerion told me to not let you out of my sight, and that if anyone tried to kill you then I was to kill them first. First rule of service; you don't disobey orders."

Serina snorted indelicately. "As if someone would try and assassinate me _here_, of all places," she snapped, gesturing at their surroundings broadly enough to make the tailor click his tongue in disapproval as the measurement he was taking of her shoulders was fouled. He had been a tailor long enough, or was simply eccentric enough, that even a commission for a royal wedding dress wasn't enough to throw off his professional equilibrium.

"You'd be surprised," Adaran said darkly. "An assassin who couldn't worm his way into a public tailor's shop wouldn't be much of an assassin, would he? And no," he went on as Serina opened her mouth, "the fact that there are soldiers at the front and back doors wouldn't necessarily dissuade him. All he'd have to do would be to pose as a courier or an errand boy or somesuch, with something that he had been told to place in your hands and no other's. Then when he gets within arm's reach he outs with his knife and . . ." he drew a finger across his throat illustratively.

Serina raised an eyebrow as the tailor began measuring her outseam. "So why aren't you holding your sword to the tailor's throat?" she asked. "He could have a poisoned pin on his person, after all."

Adaran shook his head. "We've investigated him," he said, "he's clean. Keeps to himself, doesn't socialize outside his work, doesn't have any outstanding debts, doesn't have any family abroad or unaccounted for."

"So glad to know that I'm officially trustworthy, young ser," the tailor said drily. "If you would raise your arms straight out from your shoulders, my lady? Yes, thus." He ran his tape along the length of her arm from shoulder to wrist.

Serina sighed. "I'm not going to be able to get away from this, aren't I?" she asked, jerking her chin at Adaran, who true to his orders was standing within arm's reach with a brigandine over his torso and his sidesword and buckler on his belt, and at the front door of the shop where a quartet of Legion sergeants in half-armor were suspiciously glaring at the passing crowds with their hands on the hilts of their shortswords under the command of Ser Richard Horpe, who had posted another quartet of sergeants at the back door.

"Not so long as you're married to King Robert, no, nor will you be able to escape them," Adaran replied breezily, indicating the trio of ladies-in-waiting who had been attached to Serina two days ago and were being measured by the tailor's assistants. "In point of fact, I've been told that most of my duties will consist of guarding you, at least until the wedding." His eyes twinkled merrily. "And here I was, thinking that I was going to be doing close-order drill until my feet fell off with some sergeant screaming in my ear. Instead I get to do something I would be doing anyway when the day had finally come, and I get to repay all the times _you _wouldn't stop watching _me_."

Serina smiled wistfully. "Simpler times," she observed, remembering all the times that she had kept Adaran on the straight and narrow path when they were children. It was only after Adaran had started to reach a man's years that he had fallen in with the would-be bravos that had made up his clique of friends. She had known, intellectually at least, that marrying Robert would mean accepting a certain degree of separation from her former life, but the reality was only now starting to sink in. The thought of never being able to even visit her father again without it being an affair of state was particularly daunting. "How are your other duties?" she asked, staving off melancholy with conversation.

Adaran shrugged. "Not bad," he said. "There was some friction with some of the other members of Ser Gerion's household, but that's cleared up and it was no more than what happens to any stranger that gets pushed into a tightly-knit group at short notice. For the most part it's a lot of training at arms and a lot of lessons." He shook his head. "Never let anyone tell you that an Andal maester isn't the equal of an Essosi professor, sister mine. The power of their intellect is matched only by the tediousness of their lectures."

Serina raised an eyebrow. "So you aren't learning anything, is what you're saying."

"Far to the contrary," Adaran replied. "I can rattle off damned near anything you might want to know about the economies of the Narrow Sea and the biographies of the major players in what Ser Gerion calls the game of thrones. It's just that I don't necessarily _like _doing so." He shook his head. "As far as the maesters' tedium goes, I blame the fact that they're officially celibate myself. Your professor, see, knows that if he spins out the lesson for too long then his wife will give him an earful when he gets home about the lateness of the hour. Maesters don't have that incentive to keep things short."

Serina laughed. "I'll be sure to tell _my _maester that when I see him next," she said as the tailor measured down her back from shoulder to ankle. "Which will be directly after this is done. Going over the structure and officers of the Legion, if I remember properly." As the first hostess of the kingdom, and the highest bestower of honor short of Robert, it was necessary for her to know who she would be bestowing honor upon, and at least some of what they did.

Adaran nodded. "It's simple enough if you remember that the units organize by tens," he assured her. "Ten men per squad, ten squads to a century, ten centuries to a company. Squads are led by sergeants, centuries by lieutenants, companies by captains." He shrugged. "It's different for the cavalry, but that's a different lesson."

"I'll be sure to tell Maester Ronnet that I was given the short version earlier today," Serina said sardonically, drawing a laugh out of her brother, who had become far more serious in his exile. As Adaran subsided she favored him with a warm look. "Promise me that things will stay the same between us?" she asked. "In private, at least?"

Adaran nodded deeply. "Far be it from me to forget to remind my sister that she wasn't always queen of all she surveyed," he said with a gleam in his eye. "If your head ever gets too inflated, I'll just bring up that incident with what's-his-face, the Contarenos cousin you slapped."

Serina lifted her chin imperiously. "He had it coming," she said haughtily. "At least he should know better than to make suggestive comments to women he has only just met."

Adaran cawed with laughter. "Is that what it was about? I seem to remember you putting him almost on the floor. Mind, that was probably surprise more than anything, given the fact that you were barely shoulder-high to him and maybe half his weight." He held up his right hand with thumb and forefinger maybe half an inch apart.

Serina's laughter made the tailor click his tongue in reproof as his measurement of her waistline was spoiled.

XXX

Owen Merryweather sighed to himself as he watched his ship being loaded for the voyage down to Myr for King Robert's wedding. He had tried to beg off attending, but King Stannis had insisted. Anyone of name or note in Braavos, the letter had explained, would be attending, so it would behoove the Iron Throne's most trusted representative in Essos to attend, in order to maintain the alliance and help facilitate relations between the Commune and the Kingdom of Myr. The Seven Kingdoms might be prevented from sending any official representatives to the wedding thanks to the Schism, but even if Merryweather only attended as an adjunct of the Braavosi party he would still be attending.

Owen shook his head. These waters were rapidly becoming too deep and too murky for him. During his exile he had come to appreciate the value of having a simple life with only enough work to keep things interesting. His tenure as Hand had brought him greater wealth and greater honors than his current status, but having to deal with Aerys and his . . . _eccentricities_ . . . had made it not worth it in the end. He had turned spy in order to try and restore his House's fortunes, but he had no longer had any ambitions for himself. One close brush with death at the whim of a mad king was quite enough for one lifetime.

Admittedly Stannis showed no inclination to madness, quite the opposite if anything, but Owen knew enough history to know that kingship changed a man. Gods witness, anyone in need of proof of that need only look at Robert. The headstrong, heedless, overgrown boy had become a thoughtful, canny, and well-seasoned man, by all accounts. A man that any knight would be proud to serve. Not that Owen would allow his son or grandson to serve him; aside from the fact that neither of them could be spared from the House's lands in Westeros tar stuck, and so did accusations of trafficking with heretics. House Merryweather needed no upheavals, after all they had been through in the last several years.

Fortunately, those Westerosi that Owen's duties made him responsible for were almost all Baelorites; Reformists tended not to stay long in Pentos city. Most of them were only passing through on their way to Myr, and those that weren't were bound for Andalos. Those Reformists tended to be the most assertive and confrontational of the whole unsavory pack of them, which made Owen all the more thankful that they removed themselves from his attention of their own accord. He knew himself to be as prejudiced as any man, but he had never been the sort to feel mortally oppressed by the mere existence of people who were different from him. After all, if everyone were a lord, then who would farm the land or weave cloth or trade from goods from foreign lands, or hew the wood and draw the water for that matter? Having a variety of people available, each good at doing different things, was necessary for Owen and his family to be what they were.

The "Old Faith", as they called themselves, saw things quite differently. To their way of thinking, anyone who didn't ascribe to their unfortunately narrow interpretation of _The Seven-Pointed Star_ was at best an outsider and not to be trusted, if not an actual or potential enemy. Fortunately, that same attitude made them a rather insular sect, who preferred to devote their energies to "reclaiming the Andalos of our forefathers" rather than converting or exterminating their neighbors. The facts that Andalos was now a Braavosi possession, that they had only been allowed to enter the country and settle it thanks to the charity of the Titan's policies regarding immigrants to the newly-claimed lands who were willing to accept Braavosi law, and that the whole pack of them together might be able to last an hour against a single battalion of Braavosi foot were unimportant, as far as they were concerned. Andalos was their birthright, they were fond of saying, by right of inheritance from their ancestors who had originated there before sailing to Westeros, and they would have it.

And while they had been cold to those who held to Baelor's, their relations with the Jonothorans had been outright venomous. One time a ship had landed at the docks after ferrying a mixed load of Old Faith and Jonothoran passengers across the Narrow Sea; the captain had reported that there had been a brawl every two or three days before he had finally forced the Old Faith passengers into the forepeak and the Jonothorans into one of the holds and forbidden them to leave, and four people had come within a hairsbreadth of dying. Fortunately, that animosity had yet to boil over in Pentos, but Owen feared it was only a matter of time before someone said the wrong thing and caused a riot.

Owen had alerted the Braavosi viceroy that the Old Faith were renegades who had foresworn their allegiance to the Iron Throne and had nothing to do with King Stannis, but the viceroy had been remarkably phlegmatic about the whole business. For one thing, he had explained, the fact that they had yet to break Braavosi law meant that he couldn't actually do anything to or about them; the laws of Braavos applied as strictly to and on behalf of its subjects as they did to its citizens. For another, he trusted that the very narrowness and exclusivity of their beliefs would ultimately work against them. Who, after all, would willingly join a cult that banned social dancing, non-religious music, and all forms of sex outside of marriage? Their severity would drive away any potential converts. Owen could see the viceroy's point, but he was less sure of the likelihood that the Old Faith would starve itself; if there was one thing that his time in royal service had convinced him of, it was that people were fundamentally unpredictable, even sane ones. Sometimes _especially_ the sane ones, because their unpredictability could never be predicted, as it could be with someone like, for instance, Aerys.

Owen shook his head. Gods, but where had all these schisms come from? All his life, and all through the lives of his forefathers, the Faith had been simply the Faith, diverse but unified, as the separate colors were in a rainbow. Now it seemed that every third or fourth man and his horse and his dog thought that they could do a better job of running the Faith than the High Septon and the Most Devout. Was Jonothor truly that charismatic, to inspire so many people to theological rebellion even on different continents? Or had he simply unearthed the warren and let the rats run loose?

For the next few weeks, at least, it would not be his problem. He had a wedding to attend, an alliance to facilitate, a king to unofficially represent, and friends on all sides to keep happy. That was quite enough to have on his plate without borrowing trouble from obstreperous heretics.


	71. Chapter 71: Forward as One

The city of Myr was a frenzy of preparation for the royal wedding. Companies of citizens, organized by quarter and ward, were taking to the streets with brooms, shovels, brushes, and buckets of whitewash to make their neighborhoods presentable, with special attention being given to the thoroughfare from the harbor district to the Palace of Justice, the great square before the Palace, and the Palace itself, for it had been decided that these would be the main venues for the official ceremonies. The city barracks were positively vibrating with the energy of thousands of soldiers polishing their armor and weapons with something approaching religious intensity; the city's standing Legion company went through almost fifty pounds of sand and wood-ash and five cloth-brushes per man in the month immediately prior to the wedding alone as helmets and arm and leg harnesses were burnished to a mirror polish and brigandines brushed until they shone. The city's guilds, recognizing the excitement of their apprentices and journeymen, decided that the excitement should at least serve a useful purpose and volunteered them to help fabricate and emplace decorations throughout the city. The only guild that didn't take part was the Tailor's Guild, for they were all but submerged with custom; it seemed that everyone with even a little spare cash had decided to order a new suit of fine clothes.

Within the councils of the royal government the atmosphere was almost as highly charged as plans were debated to and fro. There was no real question as to how the bridal procession would happen, not after the Sealord of Braavos arrived with thirty galleys of his city's fleet and a positively glittering array of the great and good of the Commune; the bridal procession would start at the docks and proceed up the main thoroughfare to the Palace of Justice, with the bride being escorted by her father, the Sealord, the Braavosi magisters, and the marines of the Braavosi squadron formed in a company under the First Sword. Nor were the post-ceremonial entertainments in doubt; nothing would do but a full tournament, with jousting, longsword and wrestling bouts, and the full spread of Legion events. Already knights were flooding in from all over the kingdom to participate, spurred not only by the chance to display their prowess and chivalry before their king but by rumors that those who acquitted themselves especially well would receive some special mark of favor. Every room-to-let in the city had been occupied, and the fields outside the walls had become a sea of tents and pavilions.

What occupied the most attention was the question of the officiant. There was no question that it would have to be done by a septon; Robert kept the Seven, and the Moonsingers were very flexible about ceremonial minutiae, as befitted a faith that had originated among steppe nomads. But which septon would officiate proved a thorny matter to parse. Robert had initially wanted Jonothor, but Jonothor himself had pointed out that the Schism disqualified him from taking part in the ceremony in any official capacity; whatever Robert's personal beliefs, the unfortunate reality was that he had to at least publicly submit to the authority of the Great Sept of Baelor. The High Septon had sent a message volunteering his services and Ser Gerion had counseled accepting the offer, but Robert had put his foot down with the support of Ser Brynden and, surprisingly, Ser Mychel, who had commented that Jonothoran sympathies among the Legion and the City Watch were such that the High Septon was likely to meet with a hostile reception and that giving orders likely to drive a wedge between the largely Baelorite knight-officers and the Jonothoran rank-and-file would be a bad idea.

Eventually it was decided to compromise, and Septon Matthos was chosen. On the face of it Matthos was a vanishingly unlikely choice, being one of a trio of proctors from Quiet Isle who was in the city to investigate the possibility of building a daughter house of the septry within the Kingdom of Myr and a reserved, studious man who much preferred exegesis to preaching. That being said, as Gerion pointed out, the important thing was that he was a Baelorite, and so acceptable to the High Septon, who agreed that Jonothor at least had a point, making him palatable enough for Robert to stomach.

Fortunately, once Septon Matthos was fastened on as the officiant (and safely ensconced in the Palace of Justice where he could practice the service without interruptions), the rest flowed into place easily enough, until at last everything was ready. The city was liberally festooned with decorations, the streets were clean enough almost to eat off of, the last alterations had been made to Serina's dress and Robert's suit, and both of them were surrounded by royal knights, Legion spearmen, and Braavosi marines who seemed to actively vie with each other in watchfulness, suspicion, and punctiliousness. No one was under any illusions that the slavers would scruple at any means under the sun to try and prevent the wedding by violence, and Lord Stark had made it clear that even the slightest hint of an attack was to be met with an immediate and overwhelming response (the actual words he used included 'crushed', 'smothered', and 'destroyed', with his fist tapped into his palm for emphasis after every one). The night before the wedding, teams of crossbowmen were deployed on the roofs along the route of the procession and surrounding the square before the Palace of Justice, the Legion lieutenants whose platoons would be lining the route walked the full length of the thoroughfare checking and re-checking potential ambush sites, and the Braavosi nobles who would be escorting Serina and the Myrish knights who would be standing with Robert went over and over their plans of action in case of attack or other emergency.

The ordinary citizens, however, were exemplified in their approach to the coming festivities by Janos Bahaan, who finished his daily work, closed up his bakery, made sure that his good clothes and those of his family were ready for the morning, and then went to sleep.

XXX

Whether by blind chance or the prayers of half the city, the day of the wedding dawned to a cloudless sky and a sun that shone down on the finery of the city below it. It was a mark of the Kingdom of Myr's prosperity, even in spite of the wars, that most of its citizens were able to afford two sets of regular clothes and a third set of finer make reserved for special occasions. The Legion spearmen lining the thoroughfare from the harbor were in a double line, back to armored back, with half of each company facing outwards to restrain and watch the crowds and the other half facing inwards to render the royal salute as the bride passed.

The vanguard of the procession was a corps of musicians, trumpeters from the Sealord's Palace who were roughly equivalent to Westerosi heralds and drummers who in the regular order of things were oar-masters on the galleys, the men who kept time for the rowers. These had been given new uniforms before sailing, as the other sailors of the squadron had, and carried themselves with justifiable pride. For the ships that had sailed to Myr for the wedding were the best in the whole Braavosi fleet, chosen by a rigorous selection process that had evaluated readiness for sea, crew efficiency, and the general turnout of the ship. Only the finest, it had been made clear, would do as an escort for a king's bride.

Behind the musicians, who preceded the column with trumpet blasts and hammering crescendos on their kettle-drums, came the marines of the Braavosi fleet. These men, on the advice of Justiciar Baholis, displayed a mix of pageantry and earnestness, on the grounds that such would be the best way to appeal to the Myrish. Each man's armor had been polished to a mirror-sheen, each morion had been decorated with egret and heron plumes, and bouquets of flowers had been tied below the head of each pike with blue ribbons, but the decoration did not conceal what lay beneath it. The armor of many of the marines was still seamed with faint lines that told of hard blows exchanged in far-foreign waters that even the most assiduous polishing could not entirely remove, and the heads of the pikes were still ten inches of tempered steel that started as broad as a man's hand and narrowed to a point like an awl. The First Sword of Braavos, who was striding proudly at their head, exemplified the dichotomy; the eye-watering gleam of his cuirass and the splendor of the osprey feathers in the tiger-skin band of his morion didn't disguise the fact that his sidesword and dagger were the same ones with which he had fought Lord Stark to a standstill, an event that was even more famous among the Legion than it was among the chivalry.

The message, already tolerably clear, was hammered home by the dress of the Braavosi magisters when they came into view, formed in a protective cordon around the bride, her father, and the Sealord. Every man of them, even the ones who had never fought a man in deadly earnest in their lives, was wearing a breastplate and carrying a sidesword. They were wearing their formal clothes underneath the armor, and they wore brimless black caps instead of helmets, but the message was still plain. _The Titan is roused and prepared to fight._

It was a message that any serious student of Braavosi history would have already known; the prosperity of the Commune, and it's commanding position in the world of seaborne commerce, was no less the product of the shrewdness of its diplomats and the strength of its coinage than it was the fruit of the intrepidity of its mariners and their willingness to defend their gains at swords-point. It was the way of the world that wealth attracted thieves, and the records of the Braavosi government were full of reports detailing how the merchant mariners of the Commune had had to fight as ferociously as any soldiers to preserve their lives and their cargoes. In similar fashion the records of Volantis and Tyrosh and Lys and the other city-states of Essos had their share of stories of how the Braavosi enclaves within them could close ranks at the first sign of upheaval to bristle blades and defiance at the world; more than one Volantene chronicler had likened them, unflatteringly, to wild boar in their tendency to stick together and fight to the death against any who threatened them. But the Kingdom of Myr had never learned such a lesson, and so it had been decided that the Commune of Braavos was to take the opportunity of this wedding to display that underneath the gold there still lay the bitter steel, to borrow a phrase.

The message was impressed upon the closer observers of the procession fairly well, but it was lost on the majority, who were swept away by the appearance of the bride. It had been expected that she would be beautiful (hadn't she been seen about the city?) but few had expected her to be lustrous enough to outshine the gilded chariot that she was riding in. Some of the finest weavers and tailors in the world, and without question the best lace-makers in the world, resided in Myr, and Serina Phassos' wedding dress was, they all collectively agreed later on, a masterpiece of their craft. The silvery sheen of the overgown and kirtle made her almost glow in the sun, and the six yards of lace that made up her veil were the finest made in Myr since the Sack. And if she was wearing a shirt of fine ring-mail between her kirtle and her chemise, as insurance against an assassination attempt, that was something only seven people in the world knew besides her, and all but one of them were either in the procession with her or awaiting her at the Palace of Justice.

She was, almost all who saw her later agreed, truly fit to be the bride of a king. Only a very few had reservations.

XXX

"A bit skinny, isn't she?" the big man observed under his breath to his companion. The balcony they were standing on was only moderately crowded, but it was still far more closely-packed than he liked. He preferred to be able to swing his arms freely, just in case it was ever necessary to fight. "I mean, some men like them that way, but not as wives. Makes childbirth difficult."

His companion shrugged. "My little kittens tell me that her mother had no difficulty birthing her or her brother," he said softly. "And while she did die in childbirth, she did so when she was almost forty. I trust that His Grace will not wait so long to get her with child."

The big man frowned. "And did your little kittens tell you that she was fertile to begin with?" he asked crossly. "It wouldn't be the first time that a pretty face turned out to be only a veil for a desert."

"Now, now, my old friend, there's no need to be uncouth," the other man replied. "His Grace is certainly fertile enough; does he not have two children already? As for the lady . . ." he shrugged expressively. "Who can say, when there has been no chance to garner evidence? If it truly concerns you so, then I suggest you learn to pray."

The big man favored his companion with a stony gaze. "I've told you about me and the gods, boss," he said, his voice utterly flat. "I know you like your jokes, and that you're the boss, but please don't make that joke again. At least not where I can hear it."

The other man, who was no midget but looked positively short compared to his massive friend, nodded shortly. "Then I shall not," he said easily. "Although if you will not pray, then I will, if there is a god that will hear a prayer from me." He looked down at the procession as it marched up the thoroughfare. "There is much that depends upon this matter having a successful conclusion," he murmured, low enough that the big man could hardly hear him. "More than even my plans can compass, I deem."

The big man hooked his thumbs into the belt that held his fighting knives and held his peace. He alone, of all the people on this balcony, knew that the slightly pudgy man he was standing with, with his shoulder-length white hair and his smooth, almost childlike face, was the Kindly Man, the uncrowned prince of Myrish crime. His outright control amounted to barely a third of all the illegality that happened in Myr city and the hinterland of the Kingdom, but the discipline of his organization, the wealth that it generated, and his cunning had made him preeminent among the other crime-lords in the city. His reach was famously long, and it was said that he had information worth killing for on almost every man and woman of worth or note in the Kingdom, from mid-ranking Guild masters to members of the Royal government.

The big man didn't know if that last was true, but he _did_ know that the boss, as he called the Kindly Man, had an arrangement of some sort that kept the City Watch from regarding him and his organization with too keen an eye. He also knew that he didn't know even half of what went on in the boss's head, or anything at all about the boss's plans that didn't immediately concern him. He had made his peace with that long ago; his contract with the boss was that he was paid, and quite handsomely, to keep the boss alive, protect anyone the boss told him to, and kill anyone the boss told him to. The making of plans was the boss's job, who then left their execution up to either him or any one of at least a hundred other of the boss's 'friends'.

And for today, the boss's pleasure was to attend the wedding celebrations, partake of the food and drink and entertainments that would be on offer, and generally have a good time. The big man was content to bodyguard him through all of that, for the boss had promised not only him, but all his people, that whatever storms life sent their way they would, in his words, 'keep on paddling'.

XXX

Lord Vernan Irons raised his eyebrows and whistled softly as the procession pulled into the great square before the Palace of Justice. "Not half bad, that lot," he said softly, eyeing the Braavosi marines. "Good discipline and good drill, at least."

"I'd like to see them fight before betting my life on them," Lord Brynnan Axewell replied just as softly. "But otherwise, aye, they seem fairly decent. Though I'll still put my money on the Legion."

Brynnan's wife, Lady Jesmyn, kicked him lightly in the ankle. "For once, can the pair of you talk about something other than war and soldiers?" she demanded, half-teasingly and half-seriously as she rolled her deep brown eyes at her husband. "This is a _wedding!_"

"No," Vernan replied flatly, drawing a kick in the ankle from his own wife, Lady Emely, who he favored with a hurt look. "What?" he asked in tones of mock-defensiveness. "It's what we do and who we are."

"This is still a wedding," Emely said, the archness of her tone belying the pleasant expression on her broad face; she was a great believer in keeping up appearances. "And so it is neither the time or the place for such talk. Especially since the bride is arriving." The last few words were almost submerged in the swelling cheer as the chariot carrying the bride rolled into the square, drawn by a pair of draft horses in elaborately embroidered caparisons that reached almost to their pasterns and chanfrons crested with egret plumes. On either side of the chariot strode the bride's father and the Sealord of Braavos, who as the chariot ground to a halt before the steps of the Palace handed the bride down and escorted her up the steps to where King Robert and his groomsmen waited like a vision from the Warrior's Heaven.

Brynnan pursed his lips thoughtfully. "She certainly looks well enough," he conceded, enduring another kick from his wife. "Although I could wish that she was from an actual noble family instead of whatever her family is in Braavos."

"Think on it, man," Vernan said drily. "Would you rather His Grace had chosen a wife from a Westerosi noble family that was sworn to Stannis and obedient to the High Septon? Because you know as well as I what the price of that marriage would be."

Brynnan shuddered and signed himself with the seven-pointed star. "Gods old and new between us and evil," he muttered. He could well imagine what the High Septon would demand of Robert in return for allowing him to marry a Baelorite noblewoman. "Probably better thus, then. I don't care what the High Septon says, if he thinks I'm going to try to stab the Legion in the back, then he can do it himself."

At the top of the steps Robert was raising Serina's veil and a wave of low gasps and murmurs ran through the crowd at the revealed beauty. Brynnan smiled, nodding sagely. "Aye, that's what a queen should look like," he said approvingly, drawing a fondly exasperated look from Jesmyn. "And will you look at yon Braavosi?" he went on, stifling a chuckle. "You can just tell what they're thinking; that there isn't a chance in any of the Seven Hells that His Grace is going to ignore his Braavosi bride. You can see them reckoning the opportunities already."

Vernan shook his head. "She is, in fact, too beautiful," he said gloomily. "The kingdom is doomed. We will never be able to pry His Grace out of bed."

Emely kicked him in the ankle again. "Don't be crass," she said sharply. "I'm sure His Grace will be able to tear himself away from her for long enough to lead the army to war. And as long as he's able to do that, do you care?"

Vernan shrugged. "So long as he gets himself an heir and keeps his Council in order, not really," he admitted. "Though I'd like him to be able to swing his hammer still. It's a little hard to fight when you're exhausted."

Emely kicked him again.

XXX

The ceremony was short, as such things usually were, and made more so by the fact that the bride wasn't converting, as was usually the case in marriages were the couple were of different faiths. It had been considered unthinkable even to ask, in this case; as Ser Gerion had put it, there were some things that friends simply shouldn't ask of each other.

When the vows were said and the rings exchanged and the wedding cloak swept over the bride's shoulders and the first kiss shared, the uproar from the crowd made the windows of the nearby buildings shake in their frames. A good wedding was always a joyous occasion, and it was made even more so in this case by the common knowledge that it was a match of affection as much as policy. The more sentimental members of the crowd were swept away by the romance of it all, and even the most hard-boiled and cynical of observers could see the joy that was radiating off both bride and groom and decide that this really wasn't the day for cynicism. Besides, there was a party to get to.

While the wedding party and a selection of guests went into the Palace of Justice for the first of several feasts, the crowd in the great square was fragmenting. While the ceremony had been going on, pre-positioned barrels of wine and beer and ale were being rolled out of the buildings where they had been stashed overnight and set up in the city's lesser squares and on street corners that had been carefully chosen for maximum dispersion of the festivities, in order to prevent any potentially fatal crushes. The city's street food vendors, men and women who sold rolls and meat pies and scones and batter-fried chunks of fish and a dozen other varieties of food that could be eaten on the move with the fingers, had been cajoled by Ser Wendel Manderly into working under Royal contract for the three days of the festivities in order to guarantee them an agreeable minimum profit in an effort to keep prices low enough to prevent even the least grumbling and were now scattered throughout the city to complement the barrels of free alcohol. The city's buskers, the street-corner musicians and dancers who earned their daily bread by entertaining their fellow citizens, had not officially received such a contract, but the gang bosses who they paid tribute to had actually bucked the trend by offering them commissions in order to augment the public entertainments.

The combination of free alcohol, cheap food, and more-or-less free entertainment had the desired effect and before three hours were out the city of Myr was, effectively, one massive party from the docklands to the Great Eastern Gate that would continue until it ran into something that stopped it. Considering that the Iron Bank and the Braavosi Exchequer were helping to fund and source the alcohol and food, this was not likely to be anytime soon. The exuberance of the festivities were only kept in bounds by the fact that the City Watch, which had been offered double pay for the duration of the celebrations and a bonus at the end of them in order to remain on duty and sober, were still patrolling the city in order to break up any fights or unacceptable disorderliness.

The chivalry and the Legion, it was noted by those who remained sober enough to notice and care, abstained from the city-wide party that was even then mushrooming from wall to wall. They had preparations to make for their own celebrations.

XXX

The tournament began, as most tournaments did, with a parade. First there came the great lords of the realm in full armor, one-handed Ser Richard Shermer of Ceralia with his reins knotted on the pommel of his saddle, Ser Brus Buckler of Campora with the buckles of his house's insignia embroidered in gold thread on his blue cloak, Ser Jaime Lannister of Alalia with his famous black cloak thrown back over his shoulders, Lord Victarion Greyjoy of Ironhold with kraken tentacles inlaid down the cheek-plates of his barbute, and Ser Lyn Corbray of Sirmium with his bascinet's visor drawn out like a raven's beak in the front rank, with two-score of the leading magnates of the Kingdom of Myr behind them in column of fours. Leading them all, by virtue of their respective and co-equal ranks, were Ser Gerion Lannister, resplendent in gilded armor trimmed in red enamel, and Lord Eddard Stark with the direwolf of his house embroidered in silver thread on his spotlessly white surcoat. Every lord in the contingent held their drawn sword at the carry, and as they walked their horses past the royal stand with the newly-wedded king and queen and the Sealord, Lord Stark barked out the command "Eyes, Right!" and each sword swept up to the lips and down to the right leg as the lords turned their heads sharply in salute to the royals.

Behind the lords came the chivalry, formed in column of fives by companies. Not all the chivalry of Myr had been able to attend the wedding, due to the need to keep the borders at least somewhat guarded, but enough had come that every cavalry company in the Royal Army was represented by at least a lance's worth of knights, their captain, and at least one of their captain-lieutenants, for a total of almost six hundred knights. The chivalry also rode with drawn swords, and also gave the royal salute at the command of Eyes Right, while the hooves of their chargers made the ground rumble even at the walk.

Behind them came the Legion, led by two centuries of the Pioneers and the companies of Myr city and its immediate hinterland. Ser Akhollo Freeman had the honor of leading the contingent, and as he gave the command for the salute and swept his sword down by his leg the spear-and-broken-chain banner of each Legion company, and of the centuries that had been sent to represent the companies stationed on the borders, tipped forward in salute as six thousand spearmen and crossbowmen marched past in review. Close behind the Legion came the Ironborn, two thousand housekarls, the pick of the Myrish fleet, with their axes sloped over their shoulders and the iron bars connecting the nasal guards of their halfhelms to the cheekplates giving them the look of so many predatory birds. They were led by Dagmer Cleftjaw, who was resplendent in three-quarter plate and bore a new sword at his side, and Roryn Pyke, who bore the kraken banner of the fleet and swept it through a great figure-eight as he lowered it into the salute. Along with the Ironborn there marched a contingent of Myrish sailors, clad in leather jerkins rather than mail and with hand-axes hanging at their hips rather than the four-foot long bearded axes of the housekarls, but they had picked up the unconscious swagger of the Ironborn who had taught so many of them how to make war on the seas, and many of them braided their beards and hair in imitation of the reavers-turned-marines.

The Braavosi, and especially the Sealord and his First Sword, were clever enough to recognize that this parade was the Kingdom of Myr's answer to their own parade from the docks. _This is the bride-price that the Kingdom of Myr offers the Commune of Braavos. The swords of its knights, the spears and bows of its infantry, and the axes of its marines. _It might have been unnecessary, given that the Kingdom of Myr's martial reputation was precisely _why_ the alliance was being sought, but it was, as one magister later put it, likely a matter of pride on the part of the Myrish to be able to demonstrate their strength, and in any case a friendly reminder between friends never hurt anyone.

After the parade came the tilt between Lord Eddard and Ser Gerion, who had claimed the honor of opening the lists. The King's Fist and the Hand of the King, who had already been mounted on their destriers and had collected lances from their squires, cantered onto the lists, saluted the royals and each other, rode back to either end, and charged. Eddard's lance struck Gerion's shield dead on and broke it cleanly in half, but Gerion's lance caught the wolf-fur crest that ran along the top of Eddard's basinet and plucked it off so that the Hand cantered to the end of the lists with the crest still impaled on the point of his lance. As they were only running a single course the marshal's flag went up to award the victory to Gerion, who wrested Eddard's crest off his lance-point and offered it back to him with a courtly bow; Eddard, for his part, had the grace to accept it with a bow of his own.

While Robert was still trying to explain to Serina and the Sealord that Gerion's greater control over his lance entitled him to the point under the rules of jousting, the tilts went on. As was typical of Westerosi jousts, there was a defending team, made up of the knights and lords from Myr city and its environs, and a visiting team made up of knights from the hinterland and the borders. The defenders, co-captained by Ser Wendel Manderly and Ser Mychel Egen, managed to hold the visitors to a draw almost to the final four jousts, when Ser Brus Buckler, Ser Lyle Crakehall, and co-captains Ser Jaime Lannister and Ser Lyn Corbray managed to eke out a victory by unhorsing Ser Wendel, Ser Mychel, Ser Richard Horpe, and Ser Brynden Tully one after the other in a dazzling display of prowess. Against such a display the archery competition went almost unnoticed, despite Will Poacher, Jon Ravenhair, and Sarra's Will pushing the target of the long shoot out to fully two hundred and seventy-five paces before Will Poacher managed to outshoot his counterparts.

The second day of the celebrations saw the Braavosi take the field, for that was the day for swordplay and wrestling, both of which were far more accessible to the Braavosi than the jousting. First Sword Syrio Forel, released from his duties for the day by special dispensation from the Sealord, had assembled a team of half a dozen of the finest blades that Braavos had to offer, and they rampaged through the qualifying rounds like leopards among sheep as the water dance of sidesword and dagger baffled the longswords of the Myrish knights with its emphasis on speed and maneuver. Only in the last several rounds did the Braavosi meet with serious competition, with Lyn Corbray, Jaime Lannister, and Eddard Stark managing to knock half the Braavosi team out of the running even as Thoros the Red and Francesco Grassi took each other out of the competition with broken fingers and Brus Buckler, Ser Addam Marbrand, and Ser Willam Fell were laid low by the remainder. The final series of bouts began well for the Braavosi when Jaime Lannister was undone by the blisteringly fast hand speed of Redalfo Marozo, but Eddard Stark managed to even the score by almost literally beating down Antonio Caransa, who had to yield the ring when the strain of attempting to parry the Iron Wolf's blows left him unable to hold his blades. The bout between Syrio Forel and Lyn Corbray was hard-fought and grueling, but finally came to an end when Syrio unveiled a beautiful feint-and-bind combination that ended with Lady Forlorn trapped over Lyn's head in the guard of Syrio's sidesword and the point of Syrio's dagger placed _just so_ in the gap of Lyn's armpit, drawing a roar of applause from the spectators.

When Syrio and Eddard took the ring against each other for the championship the anticipation in the onlookers was intense, for their previous meeting was already the stuff of legend. Nor were they disappointed, for the First Sword of Braavos and the King's Fist were almost perfectly matched; the one a hair faster and more perceptive, the latter a touch stronger and more instinctively ferocious. When they came to the end of the time allotted to them, they were stalemated at one touch apiece; when Robert and Serina offered them the choice of fighting on for one more touch or sharing the victory, mutual exhaustion prompted them to accept a draw to tumultuous applause from Myrish noble and Braavosi magister alike as they staggered off to their arming tents. The priests in the crowd wasted no time in commenting on how good an omen the decision to share the victory was for the alliance, with High Priest Kalarus speaking for many when he observed that it was the common habit of true brothers to share their good fortunes with each other. The wrestling was just as hard fought, but again the Ironborn swept the field, with Victarion Greyjoy, Dagmer Cleftjaw, and Roryn Pyke holding the ring against all comers. Victarion was given a little trouble by Ser Akhollo Freeman, but the Ironborn lord managed to pin him easily enough in the end.

The third day of the festivities was given over to the Legion events; the race-in-armor, the push-of-war, and two new events in the form of spear-throwing and a contest that was swiftly labelled 'the gauntlet'. In the gauntlet, a courier had to get a packet of messages from one end of the tourney grounds to the other, riding their horse halfway across and then covering the remaining distance on foot; this process was complicated by the fact that the couriers were presented with a quintet of obstacles along the way. First there was a fence that the couriers would have to jump, followed by a pair of outriders who would try to unhorse them and take them prisoner. After dismounting, the couriers would be faced by a ten-foot wall that they would have to scale, a low crawl under a net of bell-strung ropes, and a trio of Legion spearmen who would try to capture them between the low crawl and the finish line. To be captured, ring one of the bells on the low crawl, or otherwise be prevented from continuing was to lose, while the winner would be whoever managed to complete the course in the least amount of time.

Like most new events, the gauntlet proved sensational, although some of the more conservative onlookers grumbled about the fact that the contestants included a handful of women. Their objections, however, were quickly silenced by the observation that the women in question happened to be enrolled members of the Legion, and had all served the Kingdom in arms in the most recent war, if not earlier. And indeed when one of those women, a lithe and hard-faced virago who answered to the name of Sauce, won the competition by dint of simply weaving through the Legion spearmen of the final obstacle instead of trying to fight through them like the second-place competitor did the conservatives were seen to cheer as loudly as any other spectator. The sight of Sauce flitting through the onrushing spearmen, evading their attempted tackles by inches, had been enough to delight any lover of athletics.

The spear-throwing also won fans, but the main events, it was readily agreed, were the race-in-armor and the push-of-war. Tychan Breakchain of the fourth Legion company came within a breath of repeating his victory at the First Tournament, but he was narrowly edged out by Hararo Armsman of the sixth company, who if he didn't quite have Tychan's weight of muscle and unstoppable inertia was slightly lighter on his feet, even in almost fifty pounds of armor and gear. The push-of-war was just as popular as it had been at the First Tournament, and was made more so by the entrance of a Braavosi team consisting of ten marines from the fleet, who taken as a group could have outmassed a small aurochs. They acquitted themselves well by advancing to the quarterfinals, eventually going down in defeat to the team of the third Legion company, who went on to win and were later heard to say that the Braavosi marines had given them the toughest fight of the whole competition.

When the last of the competitions was completed a general feast was laid on for the contestants, at which the royals put in an appearance before returning to the Palace of Justice, where on the morrow the last day of celebrations would be held.

XXX

The final feast of the wedding celebrations was marked by three events, interspersed between the courses. The first event was a selection of Braavosi poets who stood forth to present the odes and sonnets they had written to mark the occasion, almost all of which were in praise of the royal couple. Each of the poets earned applause from the crowd and rich gifts from the royals, but one young poet, who was announced as Ricardo Dandalo, earned not just applause but a standing ovation for his poem, _The Price of Freedom_, and received not only a purse of gold from King Robert but a rose from the bouquet that rested by Queen Serina's chair, which he would later claim had been an even greater honor than the gold and the cheers.

The second event was one that only a very few had known was in the wind. Robert had never formed a Kingsguard, preferring to rely on the knights and squires of his military household for close protection. But that household would go with him almost in its entirety when he was on campaign, for most of them were either officers or senior knights of the first cavalry company of the Royal Army, and even in the most private sense Robert no longer had only himself to think about. So throughout the tournament he and the senior knights of his household had paid careful attention to those knights who distinguished themselves in the various events of the tournament, balancing their skill at arms against the chivalry they had displayed and prioritizing men who were either landless retinue knights or held only one knight's fee and had a proven record of lawful behavior and loyalty to the realm and the dynasty, balancing the judgments made against the information they had gathered on each prospective knight before the wedding. Parallel to this selection process ran another which focused on the Legion, seeking entire squads with good disciplinary and fighting records, and which also evidenced any particular fervor for the dynasty and the kingdom. Some of the squads that had stood out in the first investigations had been explicitly invited to the capitol to take part in the wedding, and their behavior had been judged throughout.

In the end, five knights and five squads had been selected, and it was those men that stood forth at the feast to be incorporated as the Brotherhood of the Broken Chain, sworn to defend the members of House Baratheon with their very lives against all enemies. Ser Akhollo Freeman, who had been named as their first Lord Commander, spontaneously drew his dagger and dragged the edge across his palm to seal the oath in blood, an action which was copied by each man in the new Brotherhood and which the Braavosi attending the feast found deeply impressive. The Sealord's Guard were famous for their loyalty, of course, but their oath-taking was always a matter of formulaic ceremony and solemnity, and underneath it ran the unspoken assumption that the first loyalty of the Guard was always to the Commune more than the Sealord, who was their charge on account of his being the first servant of the Commune and nothing more. And Guard recruits had never been asked to seal their oath in blood, as the heathen Ibbenese or the barbaric Dothraki might. That House Baratheon was popular enough among its army to inspire such a demonstration of unsolicited loyalty, the Braavosi later whispered among themselves, was a good omen not only for the wars to come, but for the alliance as well, since it was fairly clear that nothing could prosper in the Kingdom of Myr if the Royal Army took a disliking to it.

The third event, after the cakes, custards, fritters, and tarts of the final dessert course had been cleared away, was the speeches. First to stand forth was the Sealord of Braavos, who delivered a very pretty oration that began by complimenting the hospitality of the Kingdom of Myr and went on to extol the virtues of the new Myrish people, which were so much greater than those of the people whose displacement had been nothing more than their just punishment for the evils they had permitted in their lands. From there he went on to list the reasons that the Titan of Braavos had finally chosen to wake from its long slumber, not least of which, he claimed with a bow to Robert, was that the Kingdom of Myr had reminded them of the obligation to act imposed by the First Law. And so Braavos had awoken, and linked it's cause with the Kingdom of Myr. "Fondly do we hope, fervently do we pray, that the scourge of war may speedily pass away," the Sealord declaimed. "However, if it be the decree of fate that these wars continue until all the wealth piled up by the six thousand years of the slave's unrequited toil shall be sunk, and until each drop of blood drawn with the lash shall be repaid by another drawn with the sword, as is written in the Book of the Father, still so long shall we fight on saying, as the Moonsingers do, 'Against fate, even the gods do not contend'. It is in furtherance of this resolve that we have come here to pledge our lives, our fortunes, and our sacred honor in solemn brotherhood with this great kingdom, giving the fairest flower of our womanhood in marriage to your greatest champion as a pledge to you and to all future generations that the Commune of Braavos shall never again forget the First Law, the keel-timber of our liberties and the wellspring of our prosperity."

The Sealord's speech was met with applause from Braavosi and Myrish alike, but the true anticipation was for Robert's speech, for it had gotten out that he had spent some days closeted with Septon Jonothor and High Priest Kalarus brushing up on his rhetoric. And when Robert stood forth, he did not disappoint. The first part of his speech was a solid and workmanlike thanks to the Sealord for his compliments, and to the assembled guests for attending, while the second part laid out in stirring detail the course of Robert's journey from an adventurer bent on revenge to a king seeking to preserve his people and uphold his coronation oath, taking the audience up to the day when, confronted with the prospect of facing potentially overwhelming enemies, he had sought an ally, and chosen to look for one in the Commune of Braavos, 'the eldest child of Liberty'. And Braavos, in answer to his prayers, had stirred itself, and joined the struggle which, Robert warned, was likely to be long and arduous, requiring all the strength, hardihood, and cunning that the Kingdom and the Commune could muster.

It was then that he came to the third part of his speech, which would resound the world over. "To the question of potential defeat, which prudence requires that we keep ever before our eyes," Robert declared, "I would note that there has been no period in the history of any kingdom or state when an absolute guarantee against defeat could have been offered in good faith. It has, from time to time, so pleased the gods as to visit defeat upon the same arms that theretofore they had without exception blessed with victory, and mortal wisdom may not tell why. But that being said, I will say this also; that for my part I am fully confident that if each man and each woman acts with the courage and vigilance of their forefathers, if no point of duty is neglected, if our plans are good, and if the gods favor our cause, as they do, then we shall prove ourselves able to defend this kingdom of freedom, to ride out the storm of war, and to expand the blessings of liberty through every land that remains in bondage. It is to this purpose that I have resolved myself. It is a resolve shared by the officers of my government, by my lords and knights, and by the soldiers of my army, every one of them. It is the will of every man, woman, and child of this kingdom."

Already Robert's words were being greeted with cheers and applause. "The Kingdom of Myr, and the Commune of Braavos, joined by the indissoluble bonds of honor and kinship, shall maintain to the last breath the right of every man and woman to live and die in the freedom that is their divinely-gifted birthright," Robert proclaimed, drawing even more cheers from the assembled guests, "aiding each other like good comrades and true brothers to the last extremity of their strength." The Braavosi guests, starting to be carried away, thumped the tables in approbation, shouting their willingness to live up to the challenge.

"It is true that many rich and powerful states are arrayed, or will be arrayed, against us, with as many nations shackled into their ranks," Robert went on, "but truly is it said, 'The greater the enemy, the greater the honor of his defeat.' So although the slavers come in their thousands and their tens of thousands this I swear, binding me and my heirs after me; _we shall not flag or fail, but press forward to victory!_" The cheers by now were becoming general, and abating only when Robert raised his hands for quiet to go on. "We shall liberate Tyrosh," he declared, "we shall liberate Lys, we shall with the aid of our brothers liberate the seas and oceans, we shall liberate every land where slavery rests its head whatever the cost may be!" The table-thumping had swelled to the proportions of a small cavalry charge, and even when Robert raised his hands it took a moment for the cheers and applause to die down. "We shall liberate Volantis," he went on, "we shall liberate Meereen and Yunkai, we shall liberate Astapor and New Ghis, we shall liberate Qarth, we shall never surrender _and never retreat!_" The cheering was only stopped from swelling to an unstoppable roar by the Brotherhood of the Broken Chain thumping the butts of their spears on the flagstones for quiet. "And if," Robert went on, his huge frame seeming to have swelled to giant proportions over the course of the speech, "as the gods may will, we here should be called to give our lives in this holy cause, then our sons, and our cousins beyond the Sea, will step forward and carry on the struggle, until with the help of the almighty gods we may say, and that truly, that the last chain has been broken, that the last shackle has been struck off, and that slavery is no more!"

The feasting hall exploded in noise as the guests shot to their feet, roaring approval as they hammered on the tables in approbation. The trumpeters stationed at the doors sounded the call to arms, and the Brotherhood of the Broken Chain hammered the butts of their spears against the floor. No one could tell, afterward, who began the chant, but when it started it spread like wildfire. "Hail Robert King!" they roared, making the windows shake. "_Hail Robert King! __**Hail Robert King!**__"_


	72. Chapter 72: Flashing Flame

_The following is an excerpt from _Flash on the High Seas,_the third installment of the Flash Papers by George Dand._

Now, in my time, I've dealt with my share of unpleasant people. Among other things I've had to jump off a cliff (a short one but still a cliff) to escape a group of Drowned Men with clubs and a cash-flow problem, convince both a cadre of Old Faith rebels and a warband of Burned Men that I was spying for their side, and think my way through a night of treachery in Qarth when their version of the game of thrones got bloody and the Blue Lips seemed to be the only faction still sane enough to care what it was all about. And that's leaving aside the time I've spent north of the Wall, which I presume you know about. Gods know there's enough songs about it. All of which is to say that when I describe a group of people as being hard to like, I know whereof I speak.

Now, I like Braavos, taken as a whole. To be sure the weather can be vile, and it's not kind to people who are easily seasick, but the food's good, the people can be stunningly hospitable, their parties are some of the best I've ever been to, and their women, ye gods and little fishes their women . . . But every barrel of apples has a few sour ones, and Braavos is no exception. Take the hot temper of a Dornishman, the self-importance of a knight of the Reach, the dislike of foreigners of a Northman, the pride of a Valeman, the fractiousness of a Riverlander, the blood-lust of a Stormlander, and the self-righteousness of a Reformist, distill them all into one man and give him a sword and the knowledge of how to use it, and you have a Braavosi bravo. Small wonder that every family that could sent their sons to sea; whatever fate awaited them there, it was preferable to them running with, or being run through by, one pack or another of those lunatics.

Mind you, there are rules to their behavior, although it's rare for them to take the time and go to the bother of explaining them to a foreigner when they can simply draw swords and lay on, but rules there are nonetheless. They'll leave you alone if you're unarmed, for one thing, and for another they'll leave you alone if the government puts the word out that you're to be left alone. But that's a rare favor to receive, and one I didn't get, so the best I could have hoped for was for them to decide that I was beneath their notice. There were two problems with that hope. Firstly, I was a famous knight who had recently won a duel of some importance, the which had only grown in the retelling. Secondly, I was an envoy of King Stannis, who as far as the Braavosi public was concerned had left their fleet to die off Tyrosh. As a result, I could hardly go anywhere in the city without little clots of bravos turning up outside the building I was in for the day, yelling for Flash the Fool to come out and show them what Andal knights were made of.

I did my best to ignore them, of course; my own windiness aside, there are things you just don't do when you're on diplomatic service, however much you might want to, and fighting duels on street corners with every ruffian who questions your good name is one of them, even when the titled mediocrity who's the ambassador is in mild awe of your reputation and gives you a lot of leeway outside your few regular duties. So I tried to do my traveling in broad daylight, on the well-traveled and consequently well-policed canals and alleyways of the city, and did my best to ignore the poems and ditties that started to crop up insulting me, King Stannis, and the Seven Kingdoms as a whole. Fortunately, I've never been particularly sensitive about my _amour propre_, mostly because I don't have any, although it would have been different if I hadn't been able to plead the constraints of my duty. _You _might not care about your reputation, but other people care a great deal indeed, and all too often theirs is the relevant opinion.

Unfortunately, my luck ran out, as it tends to do at inopportune moments. I had been keeping company with a Braavosi courtesan (_not _the Nightingale; I never laid eyes on her despite what the songs say) but she had another customer to entertain, and one who was richer and better-connected than I was, so nothing would do but for me to take my leave. As it was a few hours past sundown and her house was on the far side of the Purple Harbor from the embassy and the Sealord's Palace, it wasn't more than a moment before a pack of bravos was on my heels, calling for me to stand and fight. For my part I just walked on with my nose in the air, concealing the churning in my guts with an outward air of panache as I turned through the lanes and alleys of the Purple Harbor to try and lose them. See, if you don't make an effort to defend yourself, then the bravos can't touch you without it being assault, if not attempted murder, which Braavosi courts take a very dim view of even as a general rule. When the victim was a foreign ambassador . . .

In any case I wasn't paying much attention to where I was going, so it came as a complete surprise to me when I turned my second corner in a row and tripped over a man kneeling by the building that took up the whole block. We had just picked ourselves up and were starting to brush each other off and apologize when I looked at his face and felt my heart stop. It had been years, and he had a more wolfish cast to his features than I remembered, but I would have recognized Stallen Naerolis anywhere.

I don't know how long we stood there gaping at each other (he looked as surprised as I was) but all I can remember was that I was thinking furiously. Stallen had been a True Myrish assassin when last we met, and before I had sailed for Braavos one of Lord Arryn's secretaries had mentioned that he had become a big fellow in their secret service. And Braavos, since their alliance with the Kingdom of Myr, was now their enemy. QED, if Stallen was here, and with a band of cutthroats who were also looking at me with shock on their faces, then he was up to no good. Furthermore, since I had evidently interrupted him in the midst of something nefarious, he couldn't afford to let me get away with my life.

In light of all this, as the Dornish would say, there was no choice but to fight.

We must have come to the same conclusion within heartbeats of each other, but I'm morally convinced that I decided first, the reason being that I went to headbutt him a split-second before he did. As a result, my forehead hit the bridge of his nose, while his forehead hit the top of my forehead where it curved back towards my scalp. At any rate we reeled away from each other, with me accelerating the separation with a thrust-kick to the midsection. "Infiltrators!" I bellowed as I clawed at my arming sword and rondel dagger; thank the gods for the knight's reflex that had made me wear them out of the embassy that morning. "Turn out the Watch! Enemies, fire, murder! The Watch, ho!"

By this time, Stallen had his own blade out and was coming at me with murderous intent, with his ruffians also coming up with blades in hand; if they let me carry on shouting then the Braavosi Night Watch would come by sooner or later and they would really be for it. Thankfully, for all his other talents, Stallen was a poor swordsman; a simple forehand and backhand pair of cuts were enough to send him reeling backward with a gashed cheek. I was back-stepping rapidly, trying to keep far enough away from the bulk of them that I wouldn't get submerged and still bellowing for the Watch as I flailed my blades at them when the bravos who had been chasing me came around the corner.

Even bravos have their moments. I remember hearing the one who had been yelling at me the loudest roaring, "What!? Are you men or dogs to set upon a man at such odds? At them, brothers, for the city's honor!" and then there were eight bravos at my side with their sideswords and parrying daggers flashing in the moon and lamplight. However long we fought in that damned alleyway, it felt like an eternity, with twenty-odd swords and almost as many daggers clashing loud enough to rival a smithy. I know I killed at least one of Stallen's gang when the silly bugger didn't make his overhand cover strongly enough and the last four inches of my sword went through his skull and into his brain, but I don't properly remember anything else until the whistles of the Night Watch were sounding and Stallen was yelling "Back! Back!" and suddenly Stallen's men had run for it and there was a Night Watch patrol all around us.

I was just starting to explain who I was to their corporal when one of the constables starting yelling for him to come and look. I followed him over, naturally enough, and what I saw made my stomach turn over; sitting in the middle of the block, right against the timber wall of the building, was a pile of oil and pitch-soaked rags surrounding a bottle of murky green liquid. I had never seen wildfire before, but one of my father's men-at-arms had seen it used often enough at Mad Aerys' court to know it on sight. He didn't talk about it without a few bottles in him, but the stories he had told had been enough to give me nightmares worthy of lobster and cheese. Braavos was primarily built in stone, but wildfire will burn even on water, and even stone buildings have wooden fixtures and floors and rafters and all manner of other things. And that was just the city; what wildfire would do to the harbor, which was crowded full to bursting with trading ships and war galleys every one of which might as well have been a floating tinderbox . . .

The corporal, gods old and new bless him, was also a quick thinker. "Benito, sound the general alarm," he snapped. "Marco, Danilo, Rufio, attend." As Benito, a pink-cheeked squeaker who was probably on his first year as a constable, started blowing a three-long, three-short, three-long call on his whistle and the other three stepped forward, he bent down and gods help me if he didn't pull the rags away from the bottle and then _lift _it away from the wall as carefully as if it were made out of spun sugar crystal. Turning to the three men who had stepped forward he held it out. "Get this onto a boat, _carefully and gently, as you value your lives_, and get it out into the lagoon. Get it beyond the Titan and then heave it as far out to sea as you can. And then get to the Titan and tell them to close the strait, by order of the Night Watch." As one of the three men reached out and took the wildfire with hands that I could tell desperately wanted to shake, the corporal looked him in the eye. "Hear me, Marco," he said intently. "If that thing goes off, the city will die. If you feel it get warm, jump in the water and dive for the bottom. Understand me?" At Marco's convulsive nod, he turned to the other two. "Danilo, Rufio, if anyone gets in your way, cut them down. Commandeer the first boat that is remotely seaworthy and don't let anything stop you. Now go, go!" As the three men started trotting down the alley, Marco cradling the wildfire like a baby and Danilo and Rufio on either side of him with blades drawn, the corporal turned to me and the bravos. "Gentlemen," he said in an unmistakable tone of command, "by the authority vested in me by the Commune, I hereby deputize you to the Night Watch. Let us hunt the vermin who would burn our city."

The bravos answered with a cheer and a flourish of blades, and of course there was nothing for it but for me to come along. I couldn't very well have backed out; the Braavosi had a low enough opinion of Westerosi already without a belted knight refusing to help pursue an attempted arsonist and mass murderer. We must have made quite the sight, one knight and seven bravos in fancy dress (one of the bravos had taken thrusts through the leg and shoulder and had been left at the scene with Benito) and two Night Watchmen in gambesons, all with drawn swords and moving as a pack, following a gang of enemy infiltrators by the blood trail from their wounded.

We didn't catch up to them before they managed to escape, except for two men who had apparently been too badly wounded to keep pace and had been left behind at the docks. One of them was collared by the constables, while the other one was literally cut to pieces by the bravos. But Stallen Naerolis, that canny bastard, had a backup plan; he might have had only the one bottle of wildfire, but his getaway boat had evidently been stocked with a bow and a store of fire arrows, which he shot at the warships that had been anchored near the Arsenal on his way out. By the time the last fire was put out, twenty ships had burned to the waterline and thirty more had been too severely damaged to do anything but float. If the Braavosi crews had been even a hair slower or less well-trained in damage control, then half the fleet might have been lost, what with burning ships coming loose from their anchors and drifting into each other.

As for Marco, Danilo, and Rufio, they got the wildfire out of the city all right, but they hadn't quite managed to get beyond the Titan before the wildfire went off in their boat. Gods grant that they died quickly, they were brave enough to deserve it, but the patch of green flames burning underneath the Titan's kilt was enough to convince even the most skeptical Braavosi of how narrow an escape they had had. Which is why my list of honors includes the Bronze Moon of Service, the fourth-highest award the Commune can give for extraordinary service done to the Commune or for valor in action. The corporal, Vitorio, received the Silver Moon, which is a grade higher, and Marco, Danilo, and Rufio's families all got the Medal of Valor, the Commune's _highest_ award for extraordinary service, and a fairly comfortable pension courtesy of the Iron Bank. I haven't been able to buy my own wine in Braavos from that day to this, and the first toast I offer is always to those three men; gods all bless and keep them. Even the bravos got official thanks from the Council of Thirty and substantial rewards from the Iron Bank, which I helped them blow in a two-day party which ended with me being made an honorary member of their confraternity, what they called a _scuolo_.

By the time the Great Armament sailed two weeks later, the only True Myrish, Tyroshi, or Lyseni citizens left alive in the city were the ones who had turned themselves in to protective custody and every man in the Braavosi fleet was in a killing mood. I thought about asking the gods to take pity on the Tyroshi when they came over the horizon but I decided against it. The bastards had tried to burn a city with me in it, after all, and even without considering my personal, precious, and irreplaceable carcass, trying to burn Braavos was an act of barbarism more than an act of war. If the Tyroshi had managed to storm the city, then it would have been fair doings, but trying to do it by stealth made it a crime as much as anything. To this day the Great Armament is the only military expedition I've ever volunteered for of my own will.


	73. Chapter 73: Desires and Ambitions

Lion House was relatively small as manses went, despite it's being the urban residence of the Hand of the King. Partially that was due to the fact that Gerion made a point of keeping his work separate from his home, save for those things that his office required him to have within reach at all times. But mostly it was due to Gerion's sense of perceptions. Of all of the Kingdom of Myr's nobility, he was the most continuously aware of just how new, and just how shaky, their position was. In Westeros, the nobility had the weight of thousands of years of tradition holding them in place, serving as an anchor against the misdeeds and missteps of individual lords. In Myr, that ideological anchor did not exist, and would not exist for decades if not centuries to come. As a consequence, the nobility of the Kingdom of Myr had to demonstrate their worthiness to hold power in a way that the Westerosi nobility had not had to do for many years, both in war and in peace. Hence the modesty of Gerion's domicile in the city and the restraint of its decoration, despite the fact that his personal wealth was one of the two or three greatest fortunes in the whole kingdom; he might have changed his allegiances, as he had once observed to Robert, but he hadn't changed his family.

That last was why he and his nephew were sitting in his private solar sharing a decanter of Dornish red, one of the first vintages to finish aging for the market since the Red Viper Rebellion. "Tywin has arranged a marriage for you when your exile is lifted," Gerion said, getting down to brass tacks as quickly as decently possible after they had exchanged pleasantries about the wedding, the tournament, and the more interesting parts of the city's gossip.

Jaime leaned back, concealing surprise by raising his glass for a sip, but not well enough to hide it from his uncle. "Has he?" he asked rhetorically. "And who might the lucky girl be?"

"Lysa Tully," Gerion replied. "Lord Hoster's younger daughter."

Jaime frowned. "She's still unmarried?" he asked suspiciously.

"I am told that Hoster has been having some difficulty finding a suitable husband for her in the Riverlands," Gerion said, swirling the wine in his glass. "You know what the Riverlands are like; can't show favor to one House without offending five others. And outside the Riverlands there seems to be a dearth of bachelors of sufficient rank, worthiness, or both to marry a Lord Paramount's daughter, even if she is the younger one." He shrugged. "Possibly Hoster's fault for being picky, but what would you?"

Jaime shrugged. "I would like to be able to have some say in who I wed," he said, a slight edge in his voice. "Instead of having Father simply push a girl into my arms and telling me to produce a grandson and be quick about it."

Gerion placed his glass on the low table between them and leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. "It's part of a father's duty to find his son a bride," he said carefully; he had dealt with his share of touchy young men over the years. "And it's a good match, at that. Lysa's a fair beauty, by all accounts, and her dowry is likely to be substantial, even by the standards of our family."

"And no doubt it will be very convenient for Father to be able to secure his eastern flank_and_ turn a profit at the same time," Jaime drawled. "Insofar as the Riverlands can ever be secured, at any rate."

Gerion spread his hands. "Tywin has always had a penchant for solving two problems with a single solution," he agreed. "And it's a lord's duty to work for the advantage of his people, with whatever means may be appropriate."

"Including turning his dogs loose on women and children?" Jaime asked, his green eyes turning hard. "You know as well as I that neither Amory Lorch nor the Mountain would have laid a finger on Elia Martell or her children without Father's orders."

"That has never been proven," Gerion replied coolly. "And as far as the Mountain is concerned, I would be unwilling to put anything past him; he might have died a hero, but I will be the first to allow that he lived as a beast, and a rabid one at that. Nor will I ever claim to know what is in Amory Lorch's head, although I suspect the answer is 'not very much'."

"Please don't try to distract me with japes, uncle," Jaime said. "Just answer me this: Why would I go back to Westeros when I have everything I need and want here in Myr?"

Gerion looked Jaime in the eyes. "Because you have a duty to your family," he said sharply, "and duty means that we do things we would rather not do from time to time. I would have thought that you had learned that by now."

Jaime's face hardened. "I have learned much and more, uncle," he replied, his voice dangerously soft. "I have learned that I can do more good with a single stroke of my sword here than I can in a month of judgements in the Westerlands. I have learned that here I can be the knight I always wished to be, rather than my father's pawn. I have learned that this is the only place in the world where I can be that knight, and fulfill the oaths I swore at my knighting, and not be derided for it."

"And when you are Lord of Casterly Rock you will have the opportunity to be that knight again, and more besides," Gerion said, injecting reasonableness into his voice as he deliberately relaxed his posture; he did _not_ want to start a fight with his nephew. "Tywin will not live forever, and when he dies you will be not pawn but player. Many of the other Westermen who fight alongside you will be traveling back with you; they will be your men in a way that they can never be Tywin's, and you will have their loyalty and the skills they have learned here to draw upon. And which do you think that Robert would find more valuable; a single knight, however valiant and accomplished, or an ally who is Lord of Casterly Rock, and who will have the ear of the King on the Iron Throne and both ears of his heir?" He leaned forward. "At least sail back to Westeros for a time, Jaime," he urged his nephew. "Long enough to see Tyrion, at least; I know you have kept in touch with each other. See Cersei and Stannis as well, and your nephew and your niece. They should know you as more than a name."

Jaime's mouth contorted as he struggled with himself. Gerion carefully didn't smile; he had thought that that last exhortation would hit home. "I will consider it," he said finally. "But I will make no promises, uncle. I have done too much to restore our family's honor here to risk tainting it again."

XXX

Lord Eldon Estermont could not remember the last time he had seen Renly so pensive. His youngest grandson had always been a brash and excitable lad, driving his parents and his brothers to distraction as he raced around Storm's End, drawing anyone he could into his fantasies. The maesters Stannis had appointed to assist Maester Cressen had curbed some of the energy, but the enthusiasm they had been unable to dampen. On the voyage to Myr, he had asked so many questions that the ship's captain had eventually ordered his sailing master to take Renly on as an apprentice for the duration of the voyage; whether to preempt further questions or simply tie the boy down with honest instruction Eldon was unsure. Renly, for his part, had paid commendable attention to the sailing master's tuition, enough so that by the time they had landed in Myr he had been able to use the ship's astrolabe and compass to determine their course with, as the master put it, "reasonable accuracy for a landsman."

His ebullience had continued through almost the whole visit to Myr; the royal wedding had been almost everything a boy of almost eleven years could ask for, between the feasts and the tournament. Renly had been entranced with his older brother, and being able to sit in the royal box and at the high table with him had been enough to make the boy swell almost to bursting with pride and excitement. Robert for his part had been more than happy to explain the intricacies of the Iron Legion and the rules and reasons for the new contests that distinguished the Myrish tournament from the Westerosi, and Queen Serina had shared a few stories of life in Braavos that had Renly alternately laughing and exclaiming in astonishment. Even the knights of Robert's court had enjoyed entertaining their king's youngest brother, spinning tales of the taking of Pentos, of the Conquest of Myr, and of the Slave Wars since that had made Renly's eyes grow to the size of saucers.

But ever since their last day in Myr Renly had been quiet, almost withdrawn. Even boarding the ship and going back to his lessons with the sailing master had failed to spark his enthusiasm, although he had applied himself with an earnestness that he hadn't had before. Finally, after Eldon caught him puzzling his way through a book (a portent indeed, even before it proved to be a pamphlet that the Blackfish had written about how to drill a company of horse), he asked him what the matter was. Renly's response surprised him. "I want to be like Robert, grandfather," he had said simply. "I want people to look at me like they look at him and listen to me like they listen to him." He looked down at the deck, rubbing his hands over his knees. "I want to do what he does," he went on, "make the world better. That's what knights do."

Eldon leaned back on his stool, unconsciously stroking his beard in thought. "You'll have to work hard at your practice and your studies," he said finally. "You will need to be able to read and write well, and have a good grasp of mathematica, aside from possessing all the usual knightly skills. And more than that," he leaned forward and rapped Renly on the head with a thick knuckle, "you must learn to _listen. _And when you have listened you must _think _on what you have heard, and then _act_ upon it. There's a broad gap between each of the three, lad. Some never bridge even one, most only bridge the one between listening and acting or the one between listening and thinking. But the ones who manage to bridge all three, like your brothers do, they're the ones who leave their mark on the world. Can you do that, lad?"

Renly looked up and nodded. "Yes, my lord grandfather," he said as resolutely as he could with his voice not yet broken.

Eldon smiled. "Then read through the rest of that book and we'll discuss it tomorrow. The Blackfish is a good captain and a worthy knight, but I'll wager that I may know a thing or two that he doesn't, eh?"

XXX

Five companies of the Royal Army of Myr were assembled on the tournament grounds outside the city of Myr. Three of them were Legion companies, the standing companies from the city itself and the villages and small towns of its immediate hinterland and one of the militia companies from the city; the city's other militia company was remaining behind to provide a garrison. The other two companies were cavalry, and carried themselves with justifiable pride. They were the first and second cavalry companies of the Royal Army, the personal retinues of the King and the King's Fist in all but name. Their ranks were filled with the vassals and household men of their captains, and their officers included some of the kingdom's most famous knights. Every man and woman was fully equipped and ready to march, with the cavalry standing at the heads of their horses awaiting the order to mount up. All that was missing was their captains.

Well, they weren't missing, per se; they simply weren't in ranks. Robert was bestowing the power to rule in his name on his Hand, Ser Gerion Lannister, and both he and Lord Stark were also taking leave of their wives. It was more than a little incongruous for some of the waiting soldiers, and more than a few of the onlookers, to see the Iron Wolf holding his newborn son Brandon so carefully and kissing his wife so tenderly, but most simply shrugged and remarked that wolves cared for the members of their pack. The farewell between King Robert and Queen Serina, by contrast, drew more than a few cheers, especially when the kiss went on a tad longer than might be strictly decorous. More than a few jokes were made in the crowd, and later that day among the soldiers, about the habits of newlyweds. By and by, both King and King's Fist mounted their warhorses, causing the cavalry to vault onto their own mounts, and trotted to join their soldiers. A gesture from Robert provoked a trumpet blast, and like a single many-headed beast the companies turned to their right and began to march onto the southwestern road to Sirmium and the war.


	74. Chapter 74: Descending Madness

_The arrival of the Great Armament, as the Braavosi fleet was called in that war, signaled the beginning of the Third Slave War; the day after they finished resupplying war was officially declared. The general outline of that war is well-known, but I will broadly outline the major strokes. The Royal Army, reinforced by the Braavosi battalions who had marched south from Pentos, marched over the border in a two-pronged assault; King Robert led one force west from Ironhold and Sirmium, while Lord Stark led the other north from Alalia, with the intention of catching the Tyroshi field army in a vise._

_This was successful, in that the general intent was accomplished, but the devil, as always, was in the details . . ._

\- _Justice and Vengeance: The Sunset Company and the Kingdom of Myr in the Slave Wars_ by Maester Gordon, published 317 AC

Eddard glowered at the manse. It would have attracted his ire under any circumstances, being the country home of a Tyroshi magister and the nerve center of the estate it stood on, but there were what a lawyer would call aggravating circumstances. For one thing, it had clearly been the focus of an attempt to make it defensible; the glass windows had been fitted with iron shutters that were pierced with arrow-slits, the door had been sheathed in iron plating, and the half-timbered walls had been faced with brick.

For another, those defenses were being put to use. The magister was away, but the estate manager, the guards, and the free retainers who lived and worked on the estate had locked themselves inside when the southern prong of the attack had drawn close, but not before massacring the estate's slaves. This, the estate manager had shouted out to them during the one parley they had held, had been done at the order of the Archon, in order to deny the Iron Legion further recruits. That parley had ended when one of the guards had shot the legionary carrying the truce flag, shouting that vermin didn't deserve to be parleyed with and that they would all die fighting rather than be killed like dogs.

Eddard stroked his beard as he considered the manse. The doors and windows might have been given some protection, but the roof was still timber covered in pottery shingles; metal or brick would have been too heavy for the rafters to bear. He turned to Maege Mormont, who had been his chief lieutenant since her return to Essos. "Have the men get torches, and set the roof alight," he said. "Dry as it's been the past few days, it should go up easily enough. If they come out, cut them down; they've had their chance to surrender. If they don't," he shrugged, "then they will no longer be a problem."

Maege nodded and spurred her horse away, calling out commands. Eddard turned to Cregan and Arthor Karstark, who had both become cavalry officers. "Push the cavalry further out in front of the column, and increase the rate of march as much as you dare," he commanded. "This," he gestured at where the bodies of the dead slaves where being piled for burial, "is happening because the news of our coming outstripped us. If we can outrun the news, then hopefully we can prevent more of this kind of thing from happening."

Cregan nodded. "And it'll help us move more quickly if we don't have to siege down every manse between here and the coast," he said. "We'll see to it, my lord."

As the Karstark brothers clattered away, Eddard turned to where the Legion crossbowmen were pelting the arrow-slits of the manse to cover the advance of the torch-bearers. This was the first estate his wing of the army had come across since storming Irons' Ford and Dubris, and the determination being shown was not promising. Nor was the attempt made to fortify the manse; someone had tried to take a leaf out of the Kingdom's book on fortified settlements. If similar things were facing Robert on the northern flank of the offensive, then this war might be more difficult than previously thought.

XXX

Robert glowered at the field of bodies strewn on the fields around the manse. About two-thirds, he judged, were slaves; men and women who had been killed at the approach of the Royal Army and it's Braavosi allies. As enraging as that was, it was the other third, the one concentrated in the decorative gardens before the main doors of the manse, that had made him bristle in anger until his courser had sidled nervously from the signals it was receiving from rein and leg; those men were legionaries who, goaded beyond endurance by the fact that this was the fifth estate they had liberated where the slaves had been massacred, had broken ranks to charge the manse and been shot down by its defenders. Fortunately, only one century had gone berserk, with swearing sergeants physically holding the men of the other centuries in ranks while mounted officers cantered across the fronts of their companies roaring the men to stillness.

The manse was burning nicely now, and the cries of its defenders were weakening, but Robert had already put that from his mind. Turning his horse away from the field, he turned his glower on the lieutenant of the century that had broken. "This," he said in a voice that fairly smoked with restrained fury, "could have been accomplished with hardly a man lost if your men had kept their discipline. Instead, we have twenty men dead and twice as many seriously wounded because _you_ lost control of them."

The lieutenant, a freedman who was standing at rigid attention, opened his mouth, but was forestalled in whatever he had to say by Robert raising his gauntleted hand. "I am not interested in explanations or excuses," Robert snapped. "You failed in your duty to your men, to the Legion, and to the Kingdom. The evidence lies before us and cannot be denied. Bearing what I have said in mind, do you have anything to say in your defense?"

The lieutenant was an intelligent man. "No excuse, Your Grace," he said woodenly.

"I agree," Robert said, "and this is my sentence. For their indiscipline, your men will be stripped of their armor and all weapons larger than an eating knife, and they shall place themselves under the orders of the captain of the baggage train. There they shall do such work as he deems fit until, _in my sole estimation_, they have re-earned the right to stand in the ranks of the Legion." The surviving men of the century, drawn up in ranks behind their lieutenant, moaned slightly, only being silenced by a snapped command from their senior sergeant; many of them would doubtless have preferred physical punishment to being reduced from soldiers to stevedores. "As for you, Belan Freeman," Robert went on, pointedly _not _using the lieutenant's rank, "the Kingdom has no place in its service for a man who cannot maintain discipline and fails the trust placed in him. Drop your armor and your weapons where you stand." He turned to Ser Akhollo, who as Lord Commander of the Brotherhood was now one of the two or three highest ranking officers of his household, along with Ser Dafyn Otley and Ser Richard Horpe; Ser Dafyn was back in Myr with half the Brotherhood protecting Serina, while Ser Richard Horpe was sitting his horse on Robert's other side. "Lord Commander Freeman, assist him in divesting himself."

Ser Akhollo, his face sternly impassive, swung down from his horse and strode over to the former lieutenant, who was standing blank-faced with shock. He hardly moved as Akhollo took the glaive out of his hand, knocked his helmet out from under his other arm, unfastened his sword-belt, undid the ties of his brigandine, and dragged off his gambeson, dumping them all in the dirt as he did so. "Do not present yourself for service again," Robert commanded as Akhollo stalked back to his horse and remounted, "and henceforward do not _ever_ refer to yourself as a man of the Iron Legion or a soldier of the Royal Army. That honor is reserved for men who are worthy of it, not fools who allow their men to be slaughtered." Robert allowed some of the fury boiling in his veins to leak into his voice. "_Get. Out. My. Sight."_

The former lieutenant, looking more diminished than even the loss of his armor and weapons would account for, bowed and backed away before turning about, his face ashen and his jaw and lips clamped shut. His former company parted ranks for him silently, and then fell out themselves at a curt gesture of command from Robert. The commander of the Braavosi battalion attached to Robert's wing of the army, Captain Omero Bardi, brought his horse alongside Robert, close enough that only Akhollo and Richard would be able to overhear a quiet conversation. "A harsh decision, Your Grace, but a necessary and good one, I think," he said softly. "The man looked as if he would rather have been killed."

"That's the point, captain," Robert said coldly, gesturing to where the Legion was reforming to begin tramping down the road towards Lissus again. "The men of the Legion still fear death or mutilation or pain, as all men do, but they are old companions of theirs from their time in slavery; their masters had every right under old Myrish law to kill them out of hand for disobedience. And familiarity, as we say, breeds contempt, especially when that familiarity is wedded to the power and the pride they have gained from joining the Legion. Forbye, we have explicitly forbidden the use of most forms of physical punishment in our Army, in order to further draw the line between ourselves and the slavers."

Captain Omero nodded. "Hence the sentence of expulsion in disgrace," he commented. "They may have no fear of flogging or branding or other such punishments, but to be cast out of the brotherhood of arms in shame . . ."

Robert nodded. "Exactly," he replied. "_That _will give them pause, where even death may not." He looked westwards toward Lissus, and beyond it to Tyrosh. "Pause enough to make them remember discipline and keep them alive, the gods willing," he said softly, fingering the head of his war hammer where it hung at his belt. If what they had seen since crossing the border was going to be normal, then Robert could almost find it in him to dread what they would find in Tyrosh itself.

XXX

Daario Naharis couldn't help smiling as he rode through the gates of Sinuessa. Partly it was due to sheer glee at the way his plans had come off; barely ten days after the war had started and his army was before the main town of Tyrosh's southwestern lands and the gates had opened to them with barely any blood spilled. But it was also due to the reception that he and his men were receiving. The denizens of Sinuessa were being rapturously thankful for being taken under the protection of a city that would allow them to retain their rights and their property. The alternative, given the news from the eastern territories, had been coming under the bootheel of the Iron Legion, and no one had had any illusions about what _that _meant, however much effort they had evidently put into repairing and upgrading their walls and gates.

So the entry of the Army of Lys had been met with a crowd that seemed to consist of almost all the able-bodied citizens of the town, all cheering themselves hoarse. Many of them were throwing flowers, and some of the women in the crowd were pushing their way forward to kiss the soldiers. The only faces in the crowd that weren't transported with joy or at least relief were those of the slaves, which if they didn't mimic the happiness of the citizenry were set in the carefully blank mask that slaves and servants learned to cultivate in the presence of their masters. Daario shrugged to himself; it was the nature of the world that you couldn't please everyone, although you could at least do your best. For his part, he intended to use the powers that he possessed in military and military-related matters, which were almost alarmingly broad if you took them at face value, to try and forestall any unpleasantness from that quarter.

Under the new law that had just passed the Conclave, each district of the Lyseni territories was to vote on whether or not to adopt the recommendations put forth by the law, which boiled down to a transition from chattel slavery to indentured servitude. Each slave employed in a commercial or industrial capacity who had given satisfactory service under good behavior for thirty years was to be manumitted and given limited legal rights, including the right to own property, act as a legal witness, and join craft guilds; the children of these manumitted slaves would, upon attainting their majority with a clean criminal record, be full-fledged citizens. Few districts had implemented the law, preferring to maintain the system of slavery that had served their city-state so well in the past; a major complaint was that it would deprive citizens of _all_ their slaves, despite the fact that the law said nothing about domestic slaves and allowed exceptions for enterprises that owned fewer than ten slaves.

In districts where martial law or a state of emergency had not been declared, Daario couldn't do anything, despite being a clear case of people's willful blindness overriding their own best interest. But in districts that _were _under martial law or in a state of emergency, as Sinuessa would be for the foreseeable future, Daario could enforce the law regardless of what the citizens thought of it, and he intended to do so to the hilt. It was entirely possible that the same citizens that were throwing flowers and calling down the blessings of the gods upon him would throw brickbats and demand his head when he declared the law in full effect, with each eligible slave's required period of service backdated to the day of their enslavement, but as he had an army and they did not he did not foresee any insuperable problems. Especially since the core of his army was five hundred Unsullied, who in all probability were entirely capable of defeating the rest of his army put together, and two thousand mercenary cavalrymen, the core of which were the four hundred remaining Stormcrows who he knew would follow him anywhere. The garrison and militia of Sinuessa couldn't easily object, either; for one thing they had joined his army, and he would ensure that the habit of obeying his orders was swiftly instilled. For another, most of them were all too grateful to have a commander who had an idea, not only of how to survive, but of how to win.

He would have to strike while the iron was hot, though, not just in regards to the law, but also in grabbing enough of the nearby countryside to support the population of the town. People tended to be less combative on a full stomach.

XXX

Iluro had been a small farming village since its founding, with its main draw being the fact that it sat on the junction of two second-rank roads that linked the plantations of the Tyroshi mainland to the port of Lissus. It was those same roads that had led Mero of Braavos to lay a trap for the northern wing of the Royal Army of Myr nearby; another road ran parallel to the roads that ran through Iluro, and it was this road that the Royal Army was using on it's march from Ironhold and Sirmium to Lissus. Mero's plan had been to wait until the Royal Army had passed Iluro, and then strike it from the flank rear in order to catch it between the hammer of the Army of Tyrosh and the walls of Lissus.

Unfortunately for Mero, the outriders of the Royal Army had scouted his ambush, and the slave rebellions that had broken out when war had been declared had allowed the couriers of the Royal Army to carry the orders that had reversed the trap. Mero had launched his ambush, only to find his attacks repulsed and driven back to Iluro in a running fight where the valor of his militiamen had been outmatched by the coordination and initiative of the Royal Army, but Iluro had proved no refuge either. For obedient to his king's orders Eddard Stark had turned his wing northeast and eight companies of the Iron Legion and six cavalry companies had come up out of the southwest to turn Iluro into a slaughterhouse where men fought street by street and house by house. The Tyroshi had fought desperately, but when it came to the confused grappling of even a small urban action there were few combinations of troops better than Legion armored spear and crossbowmen spearheaded by dismounted knights and men-at-arms in plate. The second cavalry company, commonly named the Northern Company for the preponderance of Northmen in its officer corps, with Maege Mormont being most prominent among them as the company's captain, distinguished itself by leading the assault into the village and overrunning the inn despite desperate resistance from the Tyroshi company that attempted to hold it.

Finally, the last holdouts had been wrinkled out of the last cellars, by the simple expedient of opening the doors, throwing in combustibles and lit torches, and then closing the doors until the Tyroshi either surrendered or died from the smoke and the flames. Some of the Tyroshi _had _surrendered, but not many, and they had gone down fighting. Between the running fight and the Battle of Iluro, the Royal Army had lost almost a thousand men dead and twice as many wounded, with most of the casualties concentrated on the lighter-armored Legion infantry and the outriders. The Army of Tyrosh, on the other hand, had started the day fifteen thousand strong and ended it as fewer than three thousand scattered fugitives, many of them sellswords who had seen the writing on the wall and fought their way clear at the first opportunity.

One sellsword that did not make good his escape was Mero of Braavos, the Titan's Bastard, who had been unhorsed and taken prisoner in the running fight by Ser Richard Horpe; the lack of a guiding commander had been a main factor in the disorganization of the Tyroshi during the fight for Iluro. His fate could have become a bone of contention, for there was a price on his head in both the Kingdom of Myr, for the suppression of the Turtle River Revolt, and in the Commune of Braavos for the rape and murder that had led to his initial outlawry, but Captain Omero Bardi yielded the Titan's claim to Mero's blood on the grounds that the offense he had committed against the Kingdom of Myr outweighed his offense against the Commune. Mero was subsequently hanged by the neck until dead as a common criminal, cursing King Robert, the Kingdom of Myr, Sealord Antaryon, the Commune of Braavos, and every man and woman of both kingdom and commune until the tightening noose cut off his voice.

After the destruction of the Tyroshi army, the Royal Army ran rampant over the Tyroshi mainland. Myrish cavalry companies, supported by hard-marching Legion infantry, stormed plantation after plantation, their hearts hardened by the massacres on the plantations they had overrun in the border country. Eddard Stark's sobriquet of 'the Hangman' was earned in this period when he ordered that any Tyroshi male taken prisoner after defending a plantation where the slaves had been massacred was to be hanged from the nearest tree that could take the weight. One squadron of the eighth cavalry company, under the command of Ser Joren Potts, interpreted that order so broadly that it was known thereafter as 'Gallowstree Squadron'. In Lissus a slave revolt erupted when the garrison attempted to force the municipal slaves into their barracks; the slaves saw the preparation of incendiaries nearby, put two and two together, and decided that it was better to die fighting than be killed like rats. The garrison, stripped of most of its best soldiers to reinforce Mero's army, was overwhelmed and the revolt spread literally like wildfire; parts of Lissus didn't stop burning for days. The garrisons of Aesica and Brivas abandoned their posts and retreated to Tyrosh. Aesica fell two days later when the town's slaves opened the gates to the Royal Army, but the citizens of Brivas were spared the fate of their countrymen in Aesica and Lissus; not six hours after the garrison sailed away a long-range patrol of the Army of Lys entered the town at the invitation of the citizens.

Despite his displeasure at the unhinging of his plans, which had left Brivas out of the territory that Lys would claim in order to keep the border short enough to be defensible, Daario Naharis rushed reinforcements to Brivas while dispatching a spray of messengers to the Royal Army assuring Robert that he had no belligerent intentions towards the Kingdom of Myr or the Commune of Braavos and that there would be no preemptory massacres or other such excesses so long as there was peace between the alliance and Lys. A terse message from Robert accepting his terms, which had included a suggestion that further negotiations be held after the war, made Daario breathe a sigh of relief and allowed him to focus on the fortification and reorganization of Lys' newly acquired territories. On the other side of the Disputed Lands, which more than one wag had noted would need a different name as they were becoming less and less disputed by the day, the Royal Army of Myr and it's Braavosi allies concentrated on Aesica. There they were met by the Great Armament, three hundred Braavosi great galleys and one hundred Myrish galleys and longships, all packed with marines, as well as more than two hundred cogs and dromonds that would carry the army to Tyrosh isle.

On Tyrosh itself the mood was verging on the apocalyptic. With the mainland fallen and their enemies only a day's sailing away, the fear in the streets was almost thick enough to cut with a knife. Berths on outbound ships, even ships bound for Westeros or Pentos, became things to offer fortunes for, or spill blood over. One ship, the _Sea-Horse_, was so badly swarmed by desperate citizens attempting to flee that a riot broke out; only the quick thinking of the ship's captain, who cut the ropes holding his ship to the pier and sailed away on the spot, prevented the riot from spreading onto the ship and dooming it. The declaration of martial law and universal conscription had little effect, when so few able-bodied men were not already bearing arms, but they served to reinforce the feeling of despair. Alchemists, doctors, and apothecaries sold out of their supplies of lethal substances as families made suicide pacts, and knives and daggers quickly became worth their weight in gold by the same demand. The city's gold reserves were transferred out of the city under strict secrecy, save for what was necessary to pay the mercenaries, as were the securities and promissory notes of the city's major banks.

The city's fear quickly found a focus. Word of the slave revolt in Lissus had reached Tyrosh, as had reports of the slaves of Aesica opening the gates to the Iron Legion, and fear swiftly transmuted to murderous anger. A rash of attacks all over the city drove domestic and industrial slaves from household and manufactory into hiding in the barracks of the municipal slaves, where fears of a different kind quickly took hold. Those fears were realized a day later, when the barracks were surrounded by marines from the Tyroshi fleet and the garrisons of Brivas and Aesica and set alight. Those slaves that managed to break out of the burning barracks were shot down by crossbowmen or cut down by spear and swordsmen as they tried to flee. More than ten thousand slaves were killed on the Night of Flames, as it was called thereafter, and in the days that followed thousands more were killed as soldiers, marines, sailors, and gangs of armed citizens rampaged through the city seeking to remove the fifth column from their midst.

Some of the Tyroshi were jubilant or at least relieved when the last suspected slave was dragged from their hiding place and torn apart, considering that with the threat of treachery removed they might at least have a fighting chance against their external enemies. Most were more ambivalent, viewing it as a distasteful matter that needed to be carried out in the interests of the city's defense, like the conscription of all adult men and the imposition of martial law. A few, more humane or perhaps simply more practical, took a different view altogether . . .

XXX

Salladhor Saan's cabin aboard the _Valyrian_ was spacious as shipboard accommodations went, but it was still small enough that the company he was currently keeping in it made it positively cramped. Theoretically every captain in his little fleet was entitled to vote on the fleet's course of action, but realistically only seven of them had enough ships under their command to merit a permanent place at the table, and some negotiation had seen those seven entrusted with the proxies of the smaller captains. Those seven were as fractious and prideful as you might expect of men who had come to power on the strength of their swords and their wits, but they all agreed on one thing: the Night of Flames and the massacres since had been a mistake.

The difference that remained was how they would respond to it. Bartoleo the Black and Avary Waters were minded to let it pass and carry on as before. Jon Rackham, Irlodos Orlinar, and Donnel Hawkins, on the other hand, wanted to send a letter to the Archon denouncing the massacres and threatening to leave Tyroshi service if they were not denounced or if they resumed against the few slaves that remained alive. Fernadeo Hardhand and Nickolas Teach, for their part, wanted to simply sail away and leave the Tyroshi to their fate; Teach, in particular, was disgusted by the massacres. Salladhor himself was minded to sign his name to a letter of protest, but in order for such a letter to have much effect it would need to be signed by all of the major captains. This was in keeping with the usual rules governing an assemblage such as theirs, which required a unanimous vote for all major decisions, but it made making those decisions exceedingly difficult if people dug their heels in.

Bartoleo had just cut off Donnel's argument in favor of the letter by pointing out that it would make no difference and possibly make them the next targets for the mobs when there was a knock on the door and Salladhor's first mate poked his head in the door. "Messenger for you, captain," he said apologetically. "He says it's urgent."

Salladhor raised an eyebrow. "Urgent enough that it cannot wait until after we are finished?" he asked, mildly enough that only someone who knew him would be able to tell that he was displeased at the interruption.

The first mate nodded. "He said that you wouldn't want to be interrupted, and that I was to offer his apologies and this." He held up a small purse. "Payment he owes for a night in White Harbor, he said?"

Salladhor pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting back a sudden attack of weariness. "Send him in," he said, shaking his head as his first mate opened the door to admit the man he least wanted to see at that particular moment. "Davos, my friend, my old, why do you put me in these positions?"

"Believe me, I would rather not," Davos replied, pulling off his gloves and tucking them into his belt. "But needs must when your employer drives." He nodded to the other captains. "Gentlemen, I trust the evening finds you well?"

"Who the Hells are you?" Avary Waters demanded; the pug-nosed bastard from the Crownlands had always been blunt, in speech and action both.

"Davos of Flea Bottom, at your service," Davos replied with a short bow, "although I'm afraid you may have to form a line; I am here on behalf of His Grace King Robert of Myr."

There was a moment of silence as the captains absorbed the bare-faced admission. "You are either the bravest man I have ever met," Nickolas Teach said finally, "or the stupidest. Why should we not hand you over to the Tyroshi and count the reward while they decide whether to hang you or throw you to the mob?"

"Because I have a business proposition for you," Davos replied, slowly reaching into his jerkin and drawing out a sheaf of papers. "I have here letters of marque for each captain in your fleet, on behalf of the Kingdom of Myr and the Commune of Braavos. Sign them, and get them signed by King Robert and Sealord Antaryon, and each of you receives a full pardon for past crimes committed and license to raid the shipping of any state at odds with the Kingdom and the Commune." He dropped them on the table, where each man eyed them with a mixture of hunger and wariness. Getting a letter of marque from the Commune was a rare thing, and getting one signed by two different powers was almost unheard of. When those powers were engaged in long-running and apparently unstoppable wars, such a letter amounted to a license to mint your own money, if you had a good ship, a good crew, and the brains and the balls to use them. Which was why the captains hesitated; they had not reached their current positions by leaping at every opportunity that came their way without first scouting it for potential dangers.

"And why," Salladhor drawled, "would we give up the life of the free sailor to become a set of hirelings? Really, Davos, a less generous man than me would take this as an insult, especially given our last conversation."

"Because the Braavosi fleet is coming," Davos said, as bluntly as Avary Waters might have done. "So is the Kingdom of Myr's fleet, and both of them will be carrying armies. They're in Aesica right now, waiting for the word to set sail. And when they get here, they will not be in a forgiving mood. They've heard about the Night of Flames, gentles, and the massacres since then."

Bartoleo shrugged. "That was the Tyroshi's doing, not ours," he pointed out. "We didn't join the mobs, nor did we let our crews join them either."

Davos gave a sardonic bark of laughter. "You think the Iron Legion will care?" he asked derisively. "I was in Aesica when the word hit, and you can take it from me: They don't. When they get here . . ." He shrugged. "They might spare the dogs. Or maybe not; slavers _are _dogs, after all. Ask any legionary."

"So why are you offering us the letters, then?" asked Francis Redleg. "If they're going to kill us anyway, why bother?"

"Because you have three options to choose from when the alliance gets here," Davos said, folding his arms. "First, you take the letters, hoist the green pennant, and join the attack on the city. Second, you hoist the white pennant and take yourself elsewhere; you will be allowed to sail away unmolested, but you will still be enemies of the Kingdom and the Commune. Third, you stand with the Tyroshi and you take your chances, which in this case will be whether you die in the battle or afterwards." Davos looked around the room. "I know you gentlemen aren't the type to take kindly to threats, but I am under orders to say this; in recompense for the Night of Flames, and all the people that the Tyroshi have slaughtered over the course of this war, King Robert has sworn to visit torturous death upon the gallows on _all _who survive the taking of the city. Every man, every woman, every child over the age of fifteen who survives the assault will hang; as you will, if you fight alongside them."

"Bold words from a man who hasn't even fought the battle yet," Bartoleo the Black observed silkily. "We have our swords, and gods witness we are no laggards when it comes to the slaying."

"Bold words from a man who seems to be having trouble with the odds," Davos shot back, making Bartoleo bristle; the Volantene exile, reportedly a former tiger cloak despite the lack of facial tattoos, had a reputation of sufficient luridness that very few people dared show him defiance. "Braavos has sent three hundred galleys south," Davos went on, "each one full of their marines. The Kingdom of Myr is adding in just over a hundred galleys and longships, most of them crewed by Ironborn reavers. That's _four hundred _warships coming your way, with some of the fiercest fighters on the world-ocean aboard them. And that's not counting the cogs and dromonds and hulks that will be carrying the army." Davos' mouth quirked. "The Tyroshi have, what, a hundred ships, maybe a hundred and fifty if they push out every vessel that can float and carry a squad of marines? Two hundred all up, counting all of your ships?"

Davos opened his arms and spread his hands. "Tyrosh is done for," he said definitively. "But you gentles don't have to be. You can join and live, and share in the loot of the city, you can run and live as you have before now, or you can fight and die. I suggest you choose quickly; that fleet isn't going to wait for you."

There was a long moment of silence before Salladhor raised his face from where he had placed it in his hands. "You would have us break the contract we have made, my old friend?" he asked softly.

"I would have you think about what is good business," Davos replied. "For yourselves and your crews. Even if you win this battle, then the Kingdom and the Commune will come again, and again, and again, until they have this place under their heels. And when they do, they will hang every one of you that survives where you can watch the sack."

There was another moment of silence that stretched almost unbearably, as the captains flicked their eyes at each other scanning for some clue as to how they would jump. "Bugger it," Nickolas Teach said finally, reaching out one plate-sized hand, "give me one of those. Salladhor, you have a quill and some ink I can use?"

"You can't just sign that," Avary protested as Davos slid one of the letters across the table and Salladhor fetched an inkpot and one of his quills from a drawer on his side of the table.

"Fucking watch me," Nickolas challenged through his bushy black beard.

"Not without a vote of your crew at least," Avary insisted.

"My crew's been after me to leave this shithole since the Night of Flames," Nickolas said with a wry twinkle in his eyes. "I think they'll ratify this just fine. And if they don't, then they'll replace me. Either way, I'll be done with this madhouse." He scratched his name onto the letter of marque and held up the quill. "Who's next?"

XXX

Councillor Andros Stallar looked out upon Tyrosh. Tyrosh the Bright City, Tyrosh the Colorful, Tyrosh the Princess of the Stepstones, and so many other titles. It was his favorite view of the city, from a small balcony in his family mansion, as the sun set.

"Sunset, the Sunset Company ending the days of so many," the Councilor mused to himself.

Tyrosh had been founded as a military outpost of the Valyrian Freehold, meant to establish the Freehold's military presence in the Stepstones and curb the piracy that had run through these waters even in that age. Then they had discovered a most unexpected treasure under the sea, and the rest was history, as men were so fond of saying.

Tyrosh had grown and prospered under the Freehold, filling its isle to bursting until the city and island were one and the same, and proving a favored daughter for her fidelity to the Freehold. And when the Freehold fell while other cities had struggled the Archon appointed by the Freehold to command the garrison had stood fast and built a new government, maintaining the laws that had been the mainstay of Valyrian liberty and right. Tyrosh did not have the ancient traditions or the ample Valyrian blood of Lys and Volantis, but she had stood ever as a proud daughter of Valyria even as she forged her own identity.

Tyrosh had faced trials before; indeed Stallar had witnessed many of them. In his youth he had witnessed the rise of the Tyrant and the dark days when the vagabonds of the Band of Nine had strutted through their streets as conquerors. He had done his part to hold his family and their affinity together when the Tyrant had set brother against brother so that he might hold onto power over the graves of his comrades. And when the time came Stallar had played a role in the death of the Tyrant and the overthrow of his lackeys, paving the way for the return of proper governance. He had prayed, when all was done and the new Archon elected, that he had seen the end of such strife and that the proper order of things would be restored, that his sons and his sons' sons might live long and prosperously and never have their doors darkened by civil strife or foreign war.

Yet now the end was come.

For all the Myrish Remnant howled Stallar knew for a fact that at least as many if not more Freeborn Myrmen had remained in the conquered city. True, they had been cast down to the status of tradesmen and lower merchants, and none of the old nobility lived, but there were still men and women in Myr who had been born free and held citizenship before the Sack. Old Myr had been struck down and its power shattered, but still it lived on and added its strands to the tapestry of the new kingdom.

It would not be so for Tyrosh. There had been little enough of mercy in the city's enemies from the previous wars, even among the Andals who had never suffered under the lash and the brand as the soldiers of the Legion had. And what little mercy had remained had been burned away in this war, in the atrocities on the mainland and the massacres on the island. Only when the sword had drunk it's fill of blood and then some would it be sheathed.

Despite the futility of the question he couldn't help but wonder where the tipping point had been. At what point had his nation's doom been sealed? Had they burned their last chance with the barbarism of the Night of Flames? Had their last chance been at the end of the last war, when his motion for a gradual abolition of slavery had been defeated? Had they been doomed the moment Robert the Bloody struck down Rhaegar the Accursed at Tara? Surely their fate had not been set in stone when they had first instituted slavery?

What could he have done, what road could he have steered his city down, to avoid this fate?

He rubbed his thumb over the stone rail of the balcony absent-mindedly. The manse at his back had been in his family for six generations, its splendor and wealth waxing and waning with their fortunes. Under his charge it had regained the heights of fortune it had enjoyed in his grandfather's day, before the Band of Nine, but now like so many other noble houses it was cast down. So many of his family had gone; his son dead on the mainland with Mero's army, his wife and daughters sent to Oldtown where the Tyroshi enclave lived under the protection of Lord Hightower, one of the few Andals possessed of reason and honor, and his younger brother and his family gone to Volantis with half of the family's accounts and records (his wife had the other half, the half pertaining to their trade with Westeros).

But many more remained, and they knew they would perish. One of his cousins had told him outright that her children would never live under an Andal boot, to be servants in the house where they had been masters. She had poison for them and a dagger for herself, and when she was dead then her husband would take that dagger and his father's old sword to any Braavosi or Andal or slave he could before he died.

Some in the city, he knew, denied what was coming, saying that if the fleet prevailed the winter storms would protect them until spring came and went. Surely in that time Lys or Volantis would see reason and come to their aid.

Stallar was under no such delusions. The end was upon them, if not before the winter storms closed the seas to fleets and armies, then after they cleared. A treacherous voice in him hoped for the enemy to prevail soon; better a terrible end, as he had once heard a philosopher say, than terror without end.

Convincing his wife to go had been the greatest ordeal. Doraena had abandoned all dignity and outright begged him to come with her and their daughters. For him to bid bad cess to all those who had ignored his wisdom and lead his family into whatever perilous days were to come.

But he could not; he was a Councilor of Tyrosh, the son of an ancient and noble house that had been one of the leaders of the city for more than a thousand years. To abandon the city and people in their darkest hour would betray everything he was and spit on the graves of his ancestors who had given their lives for the city's good. And even if he had wanted to escape it would have been impractical. The commons were already discontented that so many of the great and good were using their fortunes to make good their escape; if word had got out that a high officer of the city's government had abandoned them then there would most likely have been a riot.

In the end he had been able to make Doraena see that she _had _to go; that he could only face what was to come with the necessary dignity if he knew that she and his daughters were well out of it. He had already given his son to the city; he would not lay his wife and surviving children on its funeral pyre. Stallar blew a kiss westward and then turned his back on the falling night. Those of his kin that remained in the city had gathered in his house, the better to pool their remaining resources and keep each other's spirits up. As the head of the house, it fell to him to lead them, even into the ending of their world. He had never failed in his duty to his family and his city; he would not fail now, even at the ending of all things.


	75. Chapter 75: The Bleeding Tower

"This has got to be the craziest idea in the history of reaving," Dagmer Cleftjaw grumbled under his breath, quietly enough that only the men immediately around him could hear.

Victarion Greyjoy favored his lieutenant with a raised eyebrow. "It's working so far, isn't it?" he asked, also under his breath and in a mild tone. "It it's crazy and it works . . ."

"It's still crazy, you just got lucky," Dagmer shot back, his tone conveying the stress that might have shown on his face if it weren't so dark and he weren't so experienced. "I don't like relying on luck, lord. Never have, never will. I didn't get to be this old by relying on things coming out my way."

Victarion shrugged; a minor feat in armor. "If it works, then we open the harbor with hardly any losses and we become the most famous reavers in the world, not just the Narrow Sea," he said reasonably. "If it doesn't, then we can try it the other way. But until we do, may I suggest that you stop tempting the Storm God's attention?" As Dagmer, having been all but accused of unseemly complaining, subsided into disgruntled mutterings, Victarion suppressed the urge to soothe the old reaver's feelings. He was the one in command, and so his word was law. It could be contested with the proper argument, but not in the field and certainly not where other men could hear. Although that being said, he was willing to concede Dagmer's point; this quite possibly _was _the craziest idea in the history of reaving.

The original plan to deal with the Bleeding Tower had been a surprise escalade; a collapsible scaling ladder assembled at the foot of the tower stealthily placed up against a window, and the first thing the garrison of the tower would know of the assault would be an armored reaver coming through the window with sword drawn. The problem with it was that if the process was interrupted then the storming party would be stranded outside the Tower in a hostile city and the best they could hope for would be a quick death in battle. So when the success of Davos' mission to suborn the pirates had borne fruit, Victarion had modified the plan.

The people of Tyrosh were used by now to seeing groups of armed and armored men in their streets, the pirates of their auxiliary fleet not least among them. At a distance or a casual glance, there wasn't much difference between the Ironborn and the pirates, as they both tended to be large, rangy men in battered armor who habitually walked with one hand on a weapon. The broad round shields that the Ironborn habitually carried had been left behind, on the theory that they were too bulky to fit into the smuggling compartments of the _Shadow_ along with the more recognizable members of the storming party, which removed one of the easy identifiers, and the Ironborn had traded their masked helmets to the pirates for simple halfhelms with nasal bars, thusly removing another. After years in the east their arming swords had almost wholly transitioned from the lobe-pommeled and thick-guarded blades of the Islands to the cross-hilted and wheel-pommeled blades that Westerosi armorers had made popular throughout the Narrow Sea. The long-hafted axes would have been more difficult to conceal or disguise, but they weren't very common even among reavers, and those who did carry them, like Victarion, were holding them low and staying in the middle of the mixed group of Ironborn and pirates in order to conceal them. The hand-axes that were so common as to be ubiquitous throughout the Narrow Sea owed their popularity to the centuries of their successful use by the Ironborn; indeed, half the pirates who had joined the storming party were carrying hand-axes that owed their inspiration to Ironborn weapons.

So although the mixed group of Ironborn and pirates had been walking down the streets like they owned the place for more than a dozen blocks, no one had spared them a second glance. All that was needed was for the Ironborn to look less like themselves and more like the sea-rovers who surrounded them and not do anything to attract close attention. Victarion had learned from his father that men saw what they expected to see, even when their expectations were outright false, but he had never thought to receive such drastic proof of the saying.

Although their success might also be due to how few people were in the streets to begin with. The average harbor district was busy almost every hour of the day or night, and under normal circumstances the harbor of Tyrosh would be no different. But the war had shut off trade almost completely, except for a few daring merchant-venturers seeking to take advantage of prices inflated by scarcity, and so the usual hustle and bustle of sailors reeling from tavern to brothel to flophouse and back was down to a near-trickle. Nor were there any of the ubiquitous gangs of stevedores and longshoremen; in point of fact, Victarion had not seen a single slave in Tyrosh thus far. He bared his teeth unconsciously; if the reports of the Night of Flames and the massacres since were true, then there was nothing that the Iron Legion wouldn't do to the city. Nor, come to that, was there anything he wouldn't forgive the Legion doing to the city. Some things just couldn't be allowed to pass unavenged.

They turned the last corner and found themselves facing the target of the whole enterprise, the Bleeding Tower. The key to Tyrosh's harbor sat on a breakwater that sheltered the harbor from the waves stirred up by the westbound winds that would eventually reach the southern Stormlands and properly speaking was not so much a tower as it was a small keep, being a square-built structure that was meant to house a permanent garrison as well as protect the harbor. The five floors of the Tower held a garrison of two hundred men, twelve heavy springalds, and four heavy mangonels on the top floor. Such a complement of artillery was fully capable of dominating the harbor mouth on its own, especially since the springalds were reportedly capable of launching incendiary bolts, but they were overshadowed in importance by the feature that dominated the ground floor of the Tower.

The harbor chain of Tyrosh was one of the island city's most important defenses, for it served the harbor as a gate served a castle. When the garrison of the Bleeding Tower raised it every night by means of working the great capstan on the ground floor of the tower, they made the harbor almost impossible to breach. A sufficiently large and heavy ship with enough speed behind it could break the chain, but in order to do so it would have to run the gauntlet of fire from the Tower's artillery, which would be certain to concentrate its efforts on any ship that appeared intent on overrunning the chain.

Fortunately, there were other ways of dealing with such a chain, as both Ironborn reaver and Narrow Sea pirate knew of old.

The mate in command of the pirates who had joined the storming party, a bosun from Nickolas Teach's crew named Iago Hands, strode up to the postern door of the Tower and hammered on it with a fist encased in a heavy steerhide glove. A viewport in the door slid open. "Who's there?" demanded a voice from inside.

"Relief watch," Hands answered. He had been chosen to knock on the door because he had been born in Tyrosh, the son of a Westerosi exile, and his accent would help allay suspicions until it was too late.

"You're two hours early," the person inside the door said.

"Tell it to the port admiral, he's the one who signed the orders," Hands replied.

"Show me," the voice challenged, and Hands produced the paper that had been written out not an hour ago by a member of Davos' crew who had some skill at such things. It wouldn't pass close inspection but hopefully it wouldn't need to.

There was a pause as Hands pressed the part of the paper bearing the forged signature of the port admiral to the viewport. "Alright, half a moment," the voice inside the door said grumpily, and the viewport slid closed. There was a grinding and rattling of bars and bolts and then the postern slid open, revealing a short and pudgy-faced militiaman in a ring-mail shirt several inches too big around for him; the excess spilled over his swordbelt. "What are pirates doing garrisoning the Tower?" the militiaman asked suspiciously, scratching at his chest as he peered at Hands, who in his felt-faced brigandine and calico sash over his swordbelt was the picture of a daring freebooter.

Hands shrugged. "Which we were told we'd get two gold ducats a man every night we were willing to garrison the Tower," he answered. "And which some of us like to sleep in a dry feather bed 'stead of a damp hammock. Now are you letting us in or not?"

The militiaman scratched at his chest again as he visibly thought it over. Victarion couldn't help but sympathize; poorly made gambesons could itch like nothing else, and there was really no way to get at it when you were wearing something over the padded fabric. "Alright, get in," the militiaman said finally, turning his back on Hands and stepping into the room. "Jace, rouse the captain," he went on as Hands began to lead the storming party through the postern.

By the time Victarion made it inside the Tower, the man who had been sent for the captain had left the room, closing the door behind him, and pirates and reavers were fanning out through the guardroom, which was fairly cozy with the four men it was supposed to hold and positively cramped with three times that many pressing in. The man who had opened the door glanced at Victarion as he leaned his axe against the table, then did a double-take. "Hang on," he said suspiciously, "do I know you from somewhere?"

Victarion shrugged. "I doubt it," he said, and he took a split-second to enjoy the shock and dawning horror on the militiaman's face as his accent registered before punching the man in the throat and seizing him by the back of his head and his chin as he staggered. "Now, lads," he said conversationally as he _pulled _with his left hand and _pushed_ with his right.

There was a series of rippling _pop-cracks_ as the bones of the militiaman's neck gave way, overlaid by the sounds of the other two men suffering the same fate. Years of hauling ropes and pulling oars made seamen hugely strong, and training to arms as the Ironborn and the pirates did made them even stronger. It took a special kind of hard man to break another's neck in such a fashion, but it was both quicker and more reliably quiet than a knife across the throat or a hand-axe to the back of the head. Assuming you could get into position to do it without alerting your prey, there was really no better way of removing someone troublesome.

Victarion dragged the militiaman over to a corner where he would be out of the way and laid him down gently so as not to make his mail rattle. Turning back to the room he took up his axe and flexed his shoulders under his cuirass. "Between here and the roof," he said grimly to his comrades, "kill everything that comes under your weapons. Now all together, and let them know who they're fighting." At the nods and bared-teeth fighting-smiles of the other men of the storming party, he turned to Iago Hands, who was standing by the door to the rest of the first floor of the Tower, and nodded sharply. Hands unlatched the door, counted down from three on his fingers, and then pushed it open and stood aside as Victarion charged.

He had an impression of a big rectangular room dominated by a pair of long tables and their accompanying benches, and then the first Tyroshi soldier was within reach. His axe, cocked back on his right shoulder with his left hand at the butt-spike and his right hand halfway up the shaft, flicked out and sheared the man's head in half on the diagonal and on the follow-through and recovery he thrust the butt-spike into another man's throat. "Ironhold!" he bellowed, stunning-loud even in a room as large as this, as the man fell away choking with his hands at his throat, "Ironhold for Robert King! Justice and Vengeance!"

After that there was only pandemonium as the room flooded with reavers and pirates, roaring in fury fueled by the nervous tension of the long walk through the enemy city. Victarion forged forward, his axe spinning a wheel of death as he strode between the tables, carving through men who had been seating at bread and cheese or dicing or playing cards with their comrades only moments before. One man who sprang to his feet before him choked and clutched at his throat as he turned purple, and as Victarion slashed open the man's belly he dimly realized that the man must have choked on his last meal. Another Tyroshi, showing remarkable bravery and athleticism if little sense, rolled off the bench like an acrobat and then came off the floor like a coiled spring as he drove at Victarion's face with an eating knife, but a sidestep and a rising blow with the haft of the axe drove the man past him and into the path of two of Victarion's housekarls, who hacked him down with their arming swords. Two more Tyroshi soldiers went down before him, one to a cut that opened his neck as neatly as a sword slash and the other to a backhand blow with the pell of the axe that caved in his temple, and suddenly there was nothing before Victarion but a great capstan wound about with a thick chain that stretched out of a little square window in the side of the Tower.

He gaped at it for a moment, unwilling to believe that the Tyroshi wouldn't have put one of their most important defenses behind a secure door, and then turned. "Hands!" he shouted, pointing at the capstan with his axe. "Take six men, unwind that damned thing all the way, and then take an axe to it. I want that chain on the bottom of the harbor. The rest of you," he went on as Hands, bleeding freely from a cut on his upper arm under the short sleeve of his brigandine, grabbed the six men nearest him, "up the stairs and anyone that beats me to the top will earn something precious of me. On, on!"

The storming party bayed like so many hounds on the scent of wounded prey as they pounded up the stairs, Victarion in the lead. Like many keeps, the Bleeding Tower's stairs only went from one floor to another, with the stairs to the next floor at the far side of the room to force any attackers to fight from floor to floor instead of bypassing one floor for those above it. The design was sound, but it depended on the garrison being alert, armed, and ready. At barely two hours until dawn, secure in the assumption that they would have plenty of warning in the event of attack, the garrison of the Bleeding Tower proved to be anything but alert and more than half of them had been killed on the first floor, although to their credit they responded quickly. The second floor fell without much effort, but at the third floor they were met with twenty men who had had time to don their mail-shirts and helmets and snatch up spears and swords. If the ten men behind them had had a moment more to span their crossbows then they might have been able to stymie the onslaught, but both the pirates and the reavers had grown to manhood on the gospel of speed and shock and the crossbows hit the ground half-spanned as Victarion, Dagmer, and their housekarls barreled into the Tyroshi. Victarion was never able, afterward, to say with any certainty that he had killed the captain of the Bleeding Tower, the fighting was so confused, but later poets and balladeers credited him with the man's death nonetheless.

Finally, at the roof, Victarion took only a moment to drag a breath into his lungs before he began giving orders. The noise of the fight would have been muffled by the Tower's walls, but the last man of the Tyroshi garrison to fall had been cut down in the middle of ringing the alarm bell, and the city was already stirring. Unless the fleet was signaled, and quickly, the Tower would become a deathtrap.

XXX

Antonio Rozzi, the Second Sword of Braavos and Captain-General of its fleet, felt his jaw drop of its own accord as he saw the navigation light at the top of the Bleeding Tower, which was a lighthouse as well as a defensive work, stop in the middle of its rotation, and then blink three times in rapid succession, as if someone were holding a board in front of the great lens that magnified the light of the beacon fire. "Well, well," he said mildly when he had mastered his astonishment, "I suppose that will teach me to doubt Lord Greyjoy's prowess." He turned to Quarlo Venier, his flag captain. "General advance and the black pennant, captain, if you please." As Quarlo began to give the necessary orders, Antonio turned to the other high officer who was sharing the sterncastle with him. "Commander Xhan, I trust the marines are ready?"

"They've been ready since midnight, sir," Darabhar Xhan replied, leaning on his great spear; the Summer Islander sellsword was only a captain in the Braavosi marines, but there was only one captain aboard a ship. Those who held the rank in any other service were referred to by the rank immediately higher to avoid confusion. "All we need is to get into that harbor and either ashore or alongside a slaver ship."

"Which shall be arranged presently," Antonio assured him. "Carry on."

Xhan straightened up, gave him the palm-backwards salute of the Braavosi fleet, and then turned and _leapt_ from the sterncastle to the maindeck in a single bound, voicing a guttural roar as he landed with surprising agility for a man six and a half feet tall and heavy enough to make the deck boom like a drum beneath him. Rising with tigerish grace from the kneeling stance he'd landed in he began to stamp straddle-legged along the deck, beating the iron-shod butt of his eight-foot spear against the planks as he slapped his chest and thigh in time to a pounding chant.

_"__Ka mate, ka mate! ka ora! ka ora!_

_Ka mate, ka mate! ka ora! Ka ora!"_

Antonio allowed himself a half-smile; it was unlikely that Xhan would have made a good marine in peacetime, but he had come highly recommended and on the voyage south from Braavos he had lived up to it. Antonio had never seen an outsider so quickly establish himself as lead wolf among a contingent of Braavosi marines, who were as insular and clannish as any other military elite in the world. And while it was hardly in keeping with the formal dignity that the Commune required of its officers, there was no denying that Xhan's display was impressive, and likely to inspire the crew. Going into action was always a nerve-racking experience made easier by a display or two of conspicuous bravery or contempt for danger, and you would have to be a lizard or dead to not recognize the elemental strength and primordial menace of Xhan's war-chant. The first time Antonio had heard it, on a trading voyage to Walano, he had very nearly disgraced himself.

_"__Tēnei te tangata pūhuruhuru_

_Nāna nei i tiki mai whakawhiti te rā!"_

The oil lamps on either side of the fore and sterncastles had their wicks extended to bathe the flagship in light, an action that was repeated throughout the fleet in a rippling wave of light that revealed the greatest fleet to take to the seas since Nymeria led the Rhoynar into exile. Three hundred great galleys under the Titan of Braavos, fifty galleys and seventy longships under the crowned stag of the Kingdom of Myr, and dromonds, cogs and hulks by the score, all within only a few miles of Tyrosh harbor. The voyage from Lissus had been nerve-racking, especially since the last half of it had been spent sailing in the dark with only minimal lights to ward off collisions. If the fleet hadn't been manned by Braavosi and Ironborn sailors it would have been impossible; simply getting the fleet to this place at this time, still in one roughly cohesive whole, counted as a great feat of seamanship and navigation. Antonio couldn't help a thrill of exhilaration as whistles sounded throughout the fleet and oarmasters began to beat their kettledrums to set the pace for the rowers. _Now we shall have our revenge_, he thought, stroking the pommel of his sidesword. _Now we shall make amends for the generations of our indifference. Tremble, Tyrosh, for your doom is upon you._ Horns were sounding throughout the fleet, but Xhan's chant cut through the terrifying melody like an axe.

_"__Ā upane! ka upane!_

_Ā upane, ka upane, whiti te ra!"_

XXX

Gorro Redleg, purser of the independent ship _Ranger_, looked at the sea lighting up like a false dawn and felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. They had all heard the rumors about the size of the so-called Great Armament, but few had given them serious credence; five hundred warships, along with half as many transports? Even for the Braavosi it seemed far-fetched. But the band of yellow light stretching across the middle distance was enough to convert even the most obdurate unbeliever. Trying to seek refuge in rational thought, he began to calculate the cost in whale oil that such a display would require. _Let's see, six hundred, no, more like seven hundred ships, four lanterns per ship burning half a gallon of whale oil an hour at that brightness . . ._ The figure he arrived at was staggering enough to shock him out of calculation; it was more than the _Ranger_ had made in all the years of her roving ever since he had come aboard to keep the ship's accounts. "Gods of sea and sky," he whispered as he clutched the amulet that hung around his neck, "deliver us."

Around him the _Ranger's _other officers and crew were also reacting to the revelation of the enemy fleet with a mixture of shock and dread. Black Galavhar, the hulking Summer Islander who held the rank of bosun and was one of the most desperate and bloody-handed rogues yet unhanged, was standing rooted to the deck with his jaw hanging open and a poleaxed expression on his face. Humbert, a defrocked septon who had fled Westeros a step ahead of the pyre for rape and murder, was signing himself with the seven-pointed star and frantically mumbling prayers for mercy and deliverance to his seven gods. Red Torrhen, a wildling from Beyond-the-Wall who had made even that lawless land too hot to hold him, was staring at the oncoming fleet with a fixed expression on his face and calling his nameless gods to witness that he had only ever killed from need and not from wantonness; a palpable lie, from what Gorro knew of Torrhen's history, but he didn't have the heart to object.

Gorro tore his eyes away from the band of light that was starting to advance across the waves and looked towards the sterncastle, where the captain was standing. Bartoleo the Black was one of the tigers of the sea, as cunning as he was ferocious, and he bore a hatred for the Braavosi that bordered on the unreasonable, even for a pirate. He had told the crew, and the captains of the other vessels under his command, that he intended to cut his way clear of whatever fleet was coming and then leave Tyrosh to its fate and the crew had cheered him for it, but Gorro desperately hoped that he had changed his mind. A fleet that large would crush any who stood before it like a boot would crush an ant, even a score of well-found and stoutly-manned ships under the command of an admiral as intrepid as Bartoleo, who was one of only five pirate admirals in history who had successfully fought off a Braavosi naval squadron intent on killing or taking them. _Please, Captain,_ Gorro all but begged, _don't order us to go at that lot. Don't order us to our deaths._

After an unbearably long moment in which half the crew stared at the oncoming fleet in horror and the other half fixed desperate gazes on their captain, Bartoleo looked away from the enemy fleet to glance at his steward, who was also the man in charge of the ship's signal flags. "Hoist the green pennant, Master Gibbs, if you please," he said in a carrying voice before turning back to his crew. "Lads!" he shouted, loudly enough that the men who had been staring fixedly at the enemy fleet started and looked to the sterncastle. "That fleet's coming for this city, and when it gets here it'll kill everything that isn't on its side. So let's show them that the green pennant isn't just for show, eh?!" There was a heartfelt cheer from the crew, and as Bartoleo began to snap out orders Gorro rushed to his action station as the captain of the right-hand bow scorpion. _Thank you, gods, for a bit of sense_, he thought, before remembering that until that fleet got into the harbor, they would be facing odds of roughly three or four to one in ships alone, along with the whole rest of the city, which had defenses other than the Bleeding Tower. He rubbed his amulet again. "I know you're probably a little busy right now," he muttered plaintively to whatever gods might be listening, "but a bit of help would be nice just now."

XXX

"Make ready, boys, here they come again!"

Victarion stoppered the waterskin and tossed it back to Dagmer, forcing himself to straighten up from leaning on his stolen shield and breathe deep into the bottom of his lungs. This marked the third time that the Tyroshi had attempted to retake the Bleeding Tower, and it was already starting to wear.

The causeway out to the Bleeding Tower ran almost a thousand feet out from the edge of the town, a narrow ribbon of stone walkway wide enough for ten men to walk abreast at a measured pace that opened onto a little plaza that lay before the Bleeding Tower's gate. That plaza was barred by Victarion's Ironborn, who had taken the shields of the former garrison of the Tower and formed a shield-wall at the near end of the causeway; Victarion hadn't liked the idea of having to split his forces to defend both the main gate and the postern when he could defend both at once. On the face of it advancing out from the Tower might be a stupid idea, but there were three things that kept it from being so.

Firstly, Victarion's Ironborn were the finest slayers in the Myrish fleet, all hand-chosen for courage, weapon-skill, and hardihood; most of them were Victarion's housekarls, his personal fighting-tail. Individually each of them was probably worth three or four Tyroshi regulars, but formed in the shield-wall and with no possibility of being outflanked, they could easily stand off odds of five or six to one, if not more. Secondly, the defection of the pirates had given the storming party more than a hundred reinforcements, among whom were some very good crossbowmen. These had taken the crossbows of the garrison and were providing archery support from the windows of the second and third levels of the Tower; the relative lack of shooting positions facing the causeway limited their potential output of bolts, but the fact that they were shooting from a protected position and being fed by dedicated teams of loaders made up for it. Thirdly, the pirates had managed to manhandle two of the heavy mangonels on the roof of the Tower around to bring them to bear on the causeway. Those mangonels could throw a forty-pound stone ball almost seven hundred feet, which meant that almost two-thirds of the causeway could be covered by projectile fire of some kind.

So when the Tyroshi burst forth from the town and began to rush down the causeway, they were met first by two forty-pound stone balls traveling at something on the order of several hundred feet per second. Whatever stone the balls were made of was softer than the stone of the causeway, and so both exploded on impact to send dozens of stone shards whizzing through the Tyroshi; plate armor over thick arming clothes could stop such fragments, and a good double-layered ring-mail shirt over a gambeson could also provide a decent amount of protection, but even where the fragments didn't penetrate they hit hard enough to leave men bruised and winded. Where they weren't stopped, they flew through the packed infantrymen like gutting knives.

The Tyroshi closed up and pushed on over their screaming and writhing comrades, making Victarion's lip curl; the first attempt to retake the Tower had been a hasty affair, a patrol of the City Watch reinforced by a pack of armed citizens from what they had seen of them and how they had acted. The second attempt had been more of the same, the attack pressed home with more vigor so that it actually reached the wall of shields before breaking. This attempt, by contrast, appeared to be made up of regulars, possibly the actual relief watch that was supposed to take over the Tower from the men the storming party had cut down.

The Ironborn stood up from where they had knelt to take a rest and closed ranks, each man's shield touching the ones on either side. This was the sort of situation men like these lived for; a narrow passage where the shield-wall could not be outflanked and where all that mattered was strength, stamina, ferocity, and the orca-pod discipline where the strength of one was the strength of all. There might be only fifty of them, that being as many as would fit in the ship's company of the _Shadow_ without making it seem suspiciously overcrewed and the smuggling compartments could hold, but their worth was displayed by the fact that the wrack line of the battle, where the waves of the Tyroshi had washed up against the wall of shields, was already a shin-deep pile of corpses. Victarion picked his sword up from where he had carefully laid it on the ground in between rushes (blood was an almighty _pain_ to get out of a scabbard) and held it low with the point jutting out between the lower curves of the oval shields; in the shield-wall there was no room to effectively cut against an opponent who was even moderately armored, which was why his axe was resting in the seal-skin scabbard on his back, and three inches of thrust was worth three feet of slash any day and was far more efficient in terms of energy, as his old master-at-arms had taught him. In a situation like this, where there would be no reinforcements until they were relieved, husbanding every ounce of energy that could be saved was not just wise, but absolutely necessary; the Tyroshi might be poor slayers compared to Victarion's picked reavers, but even bad fighters took time and strength to kill.

On his right side Dagmer spat over the rim of his shield and then set himself so that he was crouched like a panther behind the shield that covered him from just below his eyes to his knees, while on his left Ragnar Crowfeeder bared his teeth and gave voice to an ursine growl. The Tyroshi were closing in, raising their shields against the crossbow bolts that were zipping into them from the Tower and howling their fear-fueled rage at the invaders who threatened to annihilate them. The four ranks behind the immediate front of the shield-wall placed their shields against the backs of the men before them, bracing them for the onset, while the front rank set themselves as Dagmer had done, holding their swords low as Victarion did while the men in the second rank leveled their spears over the shoulders of the front rank. Victarion had time to roar, "Hold fast, brothers, for your salt and given oaths!" before the Tyroshi reached them and the killing began again.

XXX

Antonio smiled grimly as his flagship slid into the harbor of Tyrosh unopposed. Ordinarily such a direct approach would have been suicidal, but the taking of the Bleeding Tower had removed half the threat, and evidently Captain Davos had removed the other half, judging by the uproar that the harbor was in. A few ships had sailed out of the harbor under the white pennant, including one with distinctively striped oars, but approximately forty ships were rowing back and forth in front of the docks launching arrows and springald bolts at the ships that were trying to get under way, reminding Antonio of nothing so much as sheepdogs trying to keep a restive flock of sheep in one place. They had evidently paid a high price for it, judging by the fact that there were at least eight ships either on fire or sinking that Antonio could see, and also by the fact that some of the ships appeared to be drunk, the way they were weaving from side to side as they sailed. That would be due to casualties among the rowers being unevenly distributed between the port and starboard banks; the side with less motive power would not be able to do their part to keep the ship on a straight course, requiring the helmsman to compensate.

The ships trying to stifle the Tyroshi fleet, no two of them quite the same size or pattern of build, were all flying green pennants from every mast, including their bowsprits, and also had men on their sterncastles frantically waving pikestaffs bearing green pennants where the light of the stern lanterns would better illuminate them. He turned to Quarlo. "Signal for the fleet, captain," he said briskly. "Right and center divisions to pass through our friends and assault the docks."

Quarlo passed the order on to his steward, who quickly ran the signal flags up the hoist where they would be at least partially illuminated by the stern lanterns and began blowing a bugle to get the attention of the nearby ships to get them to repeat the signal. "Will we be sending ships to cut off the causeway and relieve the Ironborn, sir?" he asked.

Antonio nodded. "The captains of the left division have already been briefed that they are to accomplish that mission above all others. But the Ironborn seem to have that well in hand, and we must exploit the advantage that they and our new sellsails have bought us. And in any case," he raised an eyebrow, "we have an outstanding debt to settle, do we not?"

Quarlo nodded, a shark-like smile settling on his face. "With all dispatch, sir," he agreed. Antonio's smile was slighter, but still predatory; the Braavosi were not nobles, who believed that the path to honor was to keep no count of cost, but merchants. Their debts had to be paid, and those owed to them collected. As the Tyroshi would find, the Commune collected fairly, but in full, _to the last jot and tittle_. Tyrosh's debt to the Commune could not be paid in cash, not with all their wealth, so blood would have to make up the difference. _Try and burn our city, will you?_

The flagship nosed in between two rather battered galleys, one of which Antonio recognized even with her foremast evidently chopped in half by a springald bolt and her rails bristling with embedded crossbow bolts. _A strange day when I, the Second Sword of Braavos, come to the rescue of Bartoleo the Black_, he mused, and then there was nothing in front of the ship but enemies. There was a deep _Tungg_ as the bow springald sent its bolt hurtling through the hull of a Tyroshi galley that had managed to get under way, and then there was a grating scrape as the flagship plowed alongside another who was still lashed to the docks. "Lash the wheel!" Quarlo roared. "Boarders away!"

A score of grapnels flew from the forecastle and the waist of the ship to snag on the Tyroshi, and a quartet of boarding planks were run out. Darabhar Xhan disdained the planks in favor of simply hurling himself across the shifting gap between the two ships with a leonine roar, his spear whirling even before he landed. Darabhar's spear was seven feet of goldenheart wood tipped with a foot-long blade as broad as a man's fist at the base and tapering to a point like an awl, and in his massive hands it spun a wheel of death as he carved out a space at the end of the foremost boarding plank. The slash he landed with sent three men reeling away with their throats slashed open, a smashing blow with the butt-spike caved in a man's temple, a thrust drove a man to the deck with his rib cage split open, and a man who swung his cutlass overhand found his wrist caught in a hand the size of a dinner plate that broke his arm with a single twist-and-jerk before he was hammered away by a stamping kick to the midsection.

Behind Darabhar the Braavosi marines rose from where they had crouched on the deck of the flagship and surged over the boarding planks with a wordless roar. Their fourteen-foot pikes swung down to the level as they came onto the planks and drove the Tyroshi bodily away from where the planks debouched onto their ship, and behind the front-rankers men wielding sidesword and buckler and dagger poured to left and right to join the bridgeheads. Behind the marines came the ship's rowers, who abandoned their oars to go streaming over the side with cutlass and dagger and hand-axe, taking up the battle-cry that the roar of the marines had coalesced into. "The First Law!" they bayed as they streamed onto the Tyroshi ship, lending their weight to the pushing match that the marines were already rapidly winning. "The First Law!"

Antonio turned to the dozen gentleman-volunteers who had remained on the sterncastle; they were all sons and nephews of prominent families who had joined the fleet as his aides-cum-bodyguards. "Well, gentlemen, the music has begun and the couples have taken the floor," he said lightly as he accepted his morion from his steward and buckled it onto his head over his arming cap. "Shall we join the dancing?" The volunteers answered with a shout of bloodthirsty assent and a manifold slithering of steel on leather-cased wood as they drew their swords.

XXX

_The following is an excerpt from _Flash on the High Seas_, by George Dand._

I hope it will come as no surprise to my readers that emotions are as contagious as the pox ever was. If you don't believe me, go watch a musician perform; I'll bet all the money in my pockets against all the money in your pockets that you'll leave as happy or as sad as the music. If you still don't believe me, then you'll just have to take my word for it, because it happened to me on the voyage south from Braavos.

I had joined the Great Armament for two main reasons. Firstly, because my reputation meant that it was expected of me, especially after the Council of Thirty hung an order on my neck. Secondly, because there was a moral necessity to it that even I couldn't deny. Try and burn a whole city to the ground with no warning, no declaration of war, no anything? It simply wasn't done and it simply couldn't be allowed. And even though Stallen Naerolis had been the one to actually attempt it, the Tyroshi had put him up to it and given him the supplies, which meant that they were just as guilty as he was, if not more so. Even I could see the logic behind that and I'm no one's idea of a lawyer. Besides, the bastards had tried to burn the city while I was in it.

But if I was simply vexed at the Tyroshi, the Braavosi were _furious_. You won't find many people in the world who are prouder of their homeland than the children of the Titan, and the Tyroshi had just tried to cut its heart out. I don't know how many oaths of vengeance I heard made on the voyage south, but by the time we reached Lissus the anger of the men around me had leached into my own heart. Before that voyage I had no particular axe to grind with the Tyroshi as a people, but after it I wouldn't have shed a tear if the whole island of Tyrosh had been burned down, plowed up, and sown with salt. After reaching Lissus and hearing the stories of the Night of Flames and the other massacres the Tyroshi had committed, I was ready to wield the torch myself.

All of which is by way of explaining that when the Great Armament landed in Tyrosh harbor, my usual windy streak had decided to take the day off, probably helped by the fact that every man on the galley got a double ration of grappa, a distilled grape spirit that the Braavosi like; a stiff slug of that and I don't care who you are, it'll make you ready for a fight. No wonder the bravos like it so much. I wasn't the first man down the gangplanks onto the docks on the left flank of the harbor, but that was only because the Braavosi marines got to go first; if I'd had my way I _would _have been the first ashore. Now no one thinks of the Braavosi as great fighters, but take it from me; when the Braavosi marines went ashore on Tyrosh all the Heavenly Host couldn't have stopped them. They went down the gangplanks four abreast, _at a dead run with pikes at the level and in half-plate_ as the Warrior is my witness, with not an inch of room on either side before they went into the water, and the shock of their onset broke the Tyroshi on the dock like a hammer breaking glass. And then the gentleman-volunteers, of which I was one, were following them down with swords drawn and "The First Law!" as our battle-cry.

I don't properly recall the next few moments, except in flashes that tend to come back when I've drunk too much Dornish red or I've overindulged on lobster and cheese or I'm cutting through a layered pie and the sound reminds me a little too much of an axe going home in someone's head. I do know that we cleared our dock in jig time, between the shock of the marines and the way we volunteers fanned out to mop up the pockets the marines had isolated, and then we were marching off the dock and into the harbor district, and then things really got bloody. Ironically enough, pike formations aren't really suited to pushing out from a chokepoint like a dock; the corners are more vulnerable than you'd think to an enterprising or simply desperate band of fellows just looking for an opportunity. So the gentleman-volunteers were called to the front and we went in to break open the door to Tyrosh.

That, as the poet later said, was the time of the sword. The Tyroshi had closed ranks against us, but their professionals must have been busy on other docks because the men facing us were almost certainly militia by the fact that they were wearing mail instead of half-plate and carrying spears instead of halberds or poleaxes. For my part I was in my full suit of plate and the fury of the Braavosi had me in its grip, so I brushed the spears aside with my longsword and barreled into them with my shoulder lowered. I don't care how desperate you are, if a man just over six feet tall who weighs thirteen stone before he puts his armor on hits you at speed, you get moved. The Tyroshi eddied back from where I had barged into them, and I cut forehand and backhand and forehand again as I pushed forward; cuts wouldn't do much against mail, but the point was to keep them off balance. One of the Tyroshi lunged at me with his spear but I parried it aside and then cut overhand from the guard of the lady. He brought his spear up cross-wise over his head to try and parry, but he was at perfect cutting distance and the blood was singing in my ears and everything was an invitation to strike and spare not and so help me I put all the power of my arms and shoulders and back and hips into that blow and I smote him like Artys Arryn smiting a wildling. And my sword broke the shaft of his spear clean in half and my blade sheared through his helmet and cleft his skull to the teeth. Maybe it was cheap wood and cheap metal that his spear and helmet were made from, but Gods all witness I have only seen a helmet cut through with a sword three or four times in all my life of arms and that was one of them.

The Braavosi had followed me in, of course, and we were steadily pushing the Tyroshi back into the streets of the docklands, with the marines pushing up to aid us and casting aside their pikes in order to draw cutlass and buckler to do so. The Tyroshi fought like gamecocks for every inch and before the night was over one in four of the gentleman-volunteers from my ship was dead or wounded, but we had better armor and better weapons and we were fighting for more than mere survival. I don't know how to explain it to someone who wasn't there but when I charged into that mass of Tyroshi I _swear_ I felt something push me forward, and I couldn't have cut through that one Tyroshi's spear and helmet and skull in one blow on my own strength alone, not in a thousand years. I don't know if the gods had actually decided to take an interest in the battle or if we were all simply that angry at the Tyroshi, but I've understood men like Septon Jonothor and Ryman much better since that fight; when you've got that extra whatever-it-is behind you, you feel like you can do anything. Although if they feel like that _all the time_, then no wonder they're so much trouble; the urge to use it just because you can must be overpowering.

I didn't see most of the famous incidents of the first assault wave, like the taking of the Temple of Trade or the Second Sword of Braavos welcoming King Robert ashore, but I was there when the Ironborn were relieved. They were down to twenty-eight men still on their feet and able to fight and most of those collapsed the second they were safe, but I led the banda that relieved them and I can tell you that they hadn't taken one step back from the mouth of the square before the Tower and that the Tyroshi bodies were piled thigh-deep before the shield-wall; say whatever you like about the Ironborn, but they can sail and they can fight. Victarion Greyjoy, for his part, was leaning on his shield like an old man on a cane but he still had the ginger to grin at me and ask what was to be done next. I've never asked for more proof that the Ironborn are a race of lunatics than that.


	76. Chapter 76: Red Dawn

_Dawn revealed a city in torment. The harbor and all the docklands had fallen, including the Temple of Trade, and the situation in the outer city was getting more desperate by the hour. No one who was there disputes the bravery of the Tyroshi soldiers, but they were overmatched and many of them, it seems, knew it. It was when the defense of the outer city began to crumble and our troops began to advance towards the inner walls that they began to see proof of the madness that had fallen upon the Tyroshi . . ._

\- _Justice and Vengeance: The Sunset Company and the Kingdom of Myr in the Slave Wars_ by Maester Gordon, published 317 AC

Ser Joren Potts, captain-lieutenant in the eighth cavalry company of the Royal Army of Myr, poked his head around the corner to peek at the cul-de-sac formed by enclosure of a side-street into a single manse's property. It was fairly risky, inviting a crossbow bolt through the eye if he wasn't careful, but unlike most such buildings that had been cut off by the advancing front line this one wasn't spitting crossbow bolts and defiance at the encircling armies. Which didn't mean that it _wasn't _garrisoned, of course; given the size of the place it could be harboring anywhere up to a hundred Tyroshi, although most of the houses that his troop had stormed had been garrisoned by far less.

In any case it would have to be reduced; hard experience had already taught the Royal Army and their Braavosi allies that every building had to be cleared room by room and then held until the houses immediately around it had been seized. It wasn't helped by the fact that the sewers seemed to be large enough to allow men to pass through them, although they were still cramped enough to prohibit the use of armor and any weapons much larger than daggers. Fortunately, that problem could be solved by placing heavy stone blocks over the manholes and setting men to watch the outflows and grates with crossbows.

Joren pulled his head back and turned to his troop. "Hawkwood, Harper," he said, pitching his voice to be heard over the surf-roar of the battle, which was barely two streets away, "axes to the gate, and then your lances to go straight ahead. Perkins, go left; Stewart, go right. I'll back up Hawkwood and Harper. Hard and fast, like the others."

His knights nodded grimly, as did their squires, valets, and archers despite the fatigue that was etching lines on the faces of men not yet thirty. With his own lance they numbered twenty-five fighting men counting their pages, who would be following close behind them with light crossbows; the pages were nowhere near old enough to actually stand in the battle-line or take the lead in storming a fortified house, but they were certainly old enough to stand with the archers and add their bolts to the clothyard shafts of the older men. Five lances was only a tenth of the force he was entitled to command as second officer of the eighth, but the disjointed nature of the fighting prevented him from personally leading more; the outer city of Tyrosh, like most urban areas that had sprouted up without much in the way of central planning, was a maze of streets and cross-streets, almost perfectly designed to keep a force from maintaining more cohesion than could be maintained by the reach of the human voice. He would simply have to trust in the leadership and skill of the corporals to keep their sections together; that they would keep moving forward, on the other hand, he had no worries about barring exhaustion. The Tyroshi had seen to that themselves.

He adjusted his grip on his longsword, breathed deeply to force the fatigue to give ground, looked around his lances one last time, and then nodded sharply as he slapped his visor closed. "Go!" he shouted, wheeling around the corner and running for the low wall that had been built across the side-street when it had been enclosed, his knights clattering behind. The key to urban fighting, it had quickly been learned, was speed; spend the least amount of time at range, get into the enemy before they could put enough bolts into you to stop you, and cut them down before they could recover. It was a risky and bloody way of doing business, but the plate armor of the knights and men-at-arms allowed them to take risks that would kill Legion spearmen or even Braavosi marines, and so the cavalry companies of the Royal Army had left their horses on the mainland and were now fighting as heavy infantry.

He put his back against the wall, barely taller than his head but still a serious obstacle for all that, followed by the other men of the section, and then Hawkwood and Harper set themselves in front of the gate and began hacking away. Daven Hawkwood and Patrek Harper were both big and brawny men, even for knights, and Joren had immediately picked them out as his door-breakers when he had taken over the section. The manse's gate was stoutly built, but not stoutly enough to resist two big men wielding heavy poleaxes, and in less than a dozen blows the bar holding it closed gave way with a crunching crack. Hawkwood and Harper didn't pause before lowering their shoulders and ramming the gate the rest of the way open, because that was the other lesson the Royal Army had learned about urban combat: _Never hesitate_; hesitation got you killed. Their lances, which had formed behind them in two columns with the archers and pages scanning the windows of the manse, followed them through with a yell meant to drown out their fear and put it into the enemy and the other lances surged in after them. The archers and pages volleyed arrows and bolts into the manse's windows as the men-at-arms and squires and valets stormed across the courtyard, Perkins and Stewart peeling their lances off to the left and right to clear the outbuildings, which in this case (Joren risked breaking his stride to look around) were no more than a low shed where the slaves would sleep and another that probably held the jakes.

Hawkwood and Harper made quick work of the manse's door; even barred, the average manse door was not designed to resist the impact of two men the size of Hawkwood and Harper, who were both more than six feet tall and so strongly built as to be almost rectangular in silhouette, especially when they were encased in sixty-odd pounds of plate armor and launched themselves at it shoulders-first. Their squires and valets pushed in after them, and Joren followed to find them all staring at what they had found in the front sitting room. "Bloody hells," Harper was saying softly to himself, his square face ashen. "Bloody buggering hells, the mad bastards."

The sitting room was a macabre scene. Four children lay on the floor, looking almost like they were asleep until Joren realized that they weren't breathing. An older woman, and a younger woman who had probably been the eldest child, were hanging from the rafters, inexpertly tied nooses around their necks. In the great chair by the fireplace there sat an old man with silvery hair and a face that might have been dignified before death had slackened it and let his jaw hang open; his wrists had been slashed open, almost certainly by the bloodied knife that lay by one of the chair legs.

"Blood's still fresh," Hawkwood observed quietly, as if the nature of what they had found demanded quietude. "This was done recently."

"This is, what, the fourth bloody time they've done this?" asked Ned Cooper, who was Hawkwood's valet and had been a City Watchman in King's Landing before the Sack. "They're mad, all of them. Mad as a bucket of eels."

Joren shook himself with a rustle of steel on steel. "Clear the rest of the building," he ordered harshly, "just because the family killed themselves doesn't mean there aren't more hiding out somewhere." He grabbed Harper by the pauldron. "Patrek, I need you to keep your head on straight, alright?" he said softly so that only the big Riverlander could hear him. "Don't let this sort of thing slow you down. They're dead, move on, kill any that aren't. Eh?"

Patrek nodded mechanically. "Aye, lieutenant," he replied. "It's just . . ." He shook his head wearily. "Why the hells do they have to kill their kids, though? Will you tell me that, ser?"

"Because they think we will, Patrek," Joren replied. "And they aren't far wrong. You saw what happened when the Legion took that one temple." Patrek nodded; some of the screams had been too high-pitched to be from adults, even women. "Come on, ser knight," Joren went on, slapping him on the backplate. "Time to get back to the job."

As he walked out of the manse a few minutes later, having confirmed that nothing alive was still within except for his men, he was startled to see Perkins' valet back out of the slave quarters, dragging what appeared to be a young woman by the hair. He strode over as the valet, a rough-faced old villain from the lower Trident named Ditcher Sym, picked the girl up off the ground by the front of her dress and pushed her back against the wall of the shed. "What's all this, Sym?" he demanded.

"Little bitch went at Ser Alleyn with a fruit knife, ser," Sym grated. "He was opening the closet to look in, and she gives him the edge across the face and comes bolting out to try and run for it." He grinned evilly. "Didn't run very fast, though, did you, little pretty?"

Ser Alleyn Perkins clattered out of the shed not a moment later, the rag he was holding to his face confirming Sym's story. "Hold her there, Sym," he ordered, raising his sword as his unslashed cheek flushed red; Perkins was a good fighter but vain of his looks, which Joren doubted would be improved by a scar he couldn't even boast about. "Cut me, will you, slaver bitch?"

Joren caught Perkins' sword at mid-blade, his gauntlet protecting him from the edges. "That will do, Ser Alleyn," he said warningly. "Just because the slavers make war on girls doesn't mean we do. And she's a slave herself, or do you not see the collar?"

Perkins turned hot eyes on Joren. "She drew on me, _lieutenant_," he spat. "She fought for the slavers. That makes her the goat-fucking enemy, which means we get to do whatever we like to her, don't we lads?" There was a slight murmur of assent, but only from the other men of Perkins' lance; Perkins wasn't the sort of man to make friends outside the circle of his cronies, and while the men of his lance were all of his temper, the others hadn't yet had their discipline sufficiently frayed, despite the fact that they had been fighting for five hours already and exhaustion was starting to wear their tempers thin. The fact that the girl palpably _was _a slave, with her collar still on her neck and the brand on her shoulder exposed by her dress slipping down, made matters even more clear-cut, and the fact that their losses so far had been light was also a help.

Joren looked Perkins squarely in the face. "Contain yourself, _ser_," he commanded. "Or quit the company and call yourself a knight no longer."

Perkins scoffed. "You wouldn't break my spurs now," he sneered, gesturing at the city around them. "Not with the battle still raging."

"I will break your spurs with my own hands, followed by your neck," Joren said deliberately, the naked menace in his voice making Perkins blink. "And you know as well as I do that Lord Corbray will not only back my decision, but applaud me for it." He injected a growl into his voice. "_Stand down,_ ser."

Perkins's face worked for a moment, and then he deflated. Joren released his sword after holding it a moment more, in order to make sure he had gotten the message. "Ser Patrek," he said, making the big Riverlander snap to attention. "take two men and take this girl back to the docks, place her in the care of Lord Corbray's steward until we return." He raised his voice so that every man in the courtyard could hear him. "Tell him that she is a member of my household and under my protection. If even one hair of her head is harmed, I will take it out of his hide along with the man responsible. Understood?"

"Yes, ser!" Harper barked as he strode forward. A look made Sym let the girl go and back away with an innocent expression on his face. "Come on now, lass, no need to fret," he said soothingly, ushering the girl under his arm. The girl, really a young woman now that Joren saw her properly, with shoulder-length black hair and deep brown eyes like a frightened animal's, crept under the big Riverland knight's arm, shooting a brief glance Joren's way that managed to convey both gratitude and terror at the same time.

As Harper strode out of the gate with the girl under his left arm, taking two of the pages with him, Joren strode after them. "Fall in outside," he shouted. "Let's move on."

XXX

The intersection of Jeweler's Row and Broad Street had been a popular place for the moderately wealthy of Tyrosh to see and be seen in more peaceful days. It's shops had kept their prices carefully calibrated to offer good deals to those with the beginnings of real wealth or the pretensions thereof while being careful to never go low enough to attract 'the wrong sort', while the public fountain in the middle of the intersection had been a popular place for courting couples to meet under the watchful eyes of chaperones.

No longer.

Adaran Phassos stood flat against the wall of a storefront's entryway behind the barricade sealing off the eastern end of the intersection where Broad Street ran down towards the docklands, frantically working the cranequin of his crossbow. The barricade had been taken two, no, three hours ago by a detachment from the tenth Legion company, to which he'd been attached for the duration of the battle in order for him to 'win his spurs', and it had been under more or less constant attack ever since. The shops occupying the opposite corners of the intersection were full of Tyroshi, many of whom seemed to have crossbows and a near-inexhaustible supply of bolts judging by how many they were shooting across the square. Adaran himself was down to five bolts left in the quiver hanging off his right hip, and then he had his sidesword, the buckler hanging from a clip on the scabbard, and the rondel dagger at the small of his back, unless he could scavenge some of the bolts that the Tyroshi were shooting at him or the detachment was reinforced or resupplied.

He finally finished cranking the string of the crossbow back to the nut, unwound the cranequin to take the hooks off the string and the whole mechanism off the bow to let it hang from the lanyard attached to the cross belt that ran over his brigandine, slipped a bolt from his quiver to lay it in the shooting groove on the front part of the stock, and clamped it in place with his thumb. He peeked around the corner towards the far side of the square and jerked his head back as a Tyroshi bolt struck sparks from the face of the building. He took a breath to still the shaking in his hands, and then swiveled around the corner, aimed at the ground-floor window of the jeweler's shop on the far north corner, loosed his bolt, and let the recoil help propel him back into cover, already grabbing for his cranequin and fitting it onto the stock to reload. Ser Gerion's master-at-arms had drilled him on loading and shooting almost until he collapsed for sennights, until he had been able to do it blindfolded, and the fighting he had seen at Iluro had given him the confidence to apply that training without so much as a hiccup. He might be shooting only two or three bolts a minute, but by the gods he was shooting well, even if half the time he was only shooting to keep the enemy's head down instead of to kill.

He was two-thirds of the way through the loading drill when one of the legionaries at the barricade roared, "Here they come again, get set!" Adaran forced himself to breathe evenly as he deliberately blocked out the baying howl of the Tyroshi regulars coming down the street; Iluro had taught him that steadiness was everything in this sort of work.

"Archers ready!" came the shout of the lieutenant commanding the detachment. Adaran unwound the cranequin, slipped it off the stock, and slapped on a bolt. "Aim!" He pivoted around the corner, leveling his bow at a Tyroshi wielding an eighteen-foot pike. "Loose!" There was a rippling _tunngg-snaapp_ as Adaran and twenty other crossbowmen and archers loosed and the Tyroshi attack seemed to eddy as men fell across the front with clothyard shafts and bolts thicker than a man's thumb punched through their armor. "Spears, stand up!" the lieutenant roared, and the Legion spearmen who had been crouching behind the barricade stood up to brace their shields on the piled sacks and crates and furniture with their spears protruding outward like the spines of a hedgehog. "Brace for it, lads!" the lieutenant roared, and the Tyroshi hit the Legion shield-wall. Most of them bounced off again, but a few of them managed to punch through, their pikes overrunning the Legion shields and their inertia carrying them through the line. The archers turned their bows on them and within moments all but three were down, but those three were less than twenty feet from Adaran and he had only just started to wind his cranequin.

There was no time to load. He unwound the cranequin and slipped the hooks off the string just in time to bring the bow upwards in a rising parry that beat aside the first Tyroshi's pike. A desperate twist aside turned a lethal thrust to the left abdomen to a miss so close that the blade of the second man's pike caught a loose thread on the back of Adaran's brigandine and tore it free. Adaran never saw the third Tyroshi take an arrow to the throat and collapse, being too busy swinging his crossbow into the first Tyroshi's face. As the Tyroshi reeled backward, dropping his pike as he spat blood and broken teeth, Adaran closed with him, dropping his crossbow to snatch the rondel dagger from the small of his back and drive it in a downward thrust at the Tyroshi's neck.

The Tyroshi blocked it with a flailing arm and went for his own dagger but instinct and training drove Adaran's right fist into his face and he drove forward with another thrust as the Tyroshi staggered. That one sank into the Tyroshi's mailed forearm as he misjudged his block. The Tyroshi sprayed blood as he yowled in pain and swung a gauntleted punch at Adaran's head, but Adaran blocked the punch with his own arm and then wrapped his arm around the Tyroshi's to immobilize it and rammed the brow of his visor-less sallet into the Tyroshi's face, further mangling his dentition and winning himself the time and space to rip his dagger free and plunge it into the Tyroshi's neck with a wordless howl of fear-fueled fury.

As the Tyroshi sagged away, blood gushing from his torn neck veins, Adaran stepped back and wheeled about, ripping his sidesword from its scabbard only to find that the second Tyroshi had also been shot down and was lying on the cobblestones with two arrows through his mail-shirt and a third through his face. Adaran refused to process the fact that the Tyroshi had dropped his pike and had a dagger in his fist, clearly intending to stab him in the back, and instead sheathed sidesword and dagger as he picked up his crossbow and mechanically began to reload. The Legion had closed the line and repulsed the counterattack, but the fighting wasn't over.

XXX

Black-hearted murdering devils, the Tyroshi were and no mistake, even for slavers, and no one could convince Sergeant Jorapho Scrivener of the fifth company of the Iron Legion otherwise. He had thought that he had seen cruelty in his time as a slave in Myr, for his master had been a man of seemingly unending lasciviousness, and as Jorapho had been the house's majordomo it had fallen to him to summon whichever girl in the house had caught the master's fancy. He had done what he could to shield those who were too young or too fragile to withstand the master's attentions, often by claiming that the girl in question was feeling unwell and perhaps the master would prefer another, but he had not been able to protect all of them and the bruises and haunted eyes of those he couldn't save had haunted him. Nothing in life had given Jorapho more pleasure than taking his penknife to his master's throat during the Sack and watching him choke on his own blood. And even after the Sack he had not been able to have a peaceful night's sleep until he had joined the Legion, where he could begin to redress the debt of blood and pain he owed.

But as vile as his master had been, his cruelty had had limits, and his lechery aside he had been fairly considerate as masters went. Everyone had had enough to eat, even the scullery maids and the potboys, and the lash had been rarely used. The Tyroshi, he had known even when he was still a slave, had had no such inhibitions. One of the reasons that the lash had been so rarely used was that his former master's policy had been to sell disobedient slaves over the border, where the lash, the branks, the branding iron, and other punishments were more liberally employed. After the Westerosi had come and the wars had begun, the Tyroshi had only increased their savagery; slaves liberated from Tyroshi territory had told of overseers and guards beating slaves unconscious, or even killing them outright, at the least sign of resistance.

That alone would have been enough to make the Legion strike and spare not when it crossed the Tyroshi border. But then they had seen the massacres and heard of the Night of Flames, and steely resolve had become burning fury. The first time Septon Jonothor and Thoros the Red had held a joint service after news of the Night of Flames had reached the waiting army at Lissus, the texts they had chosen had been perfectly chosen to match the mood of their congregants. Jonothor had read from the Book of the Warrior, "See, I will defend your cause and avenge you. I will dry up her sea and make her springs dry. She will be a heap of ruins, a haunt of jackals, an object of horror and scorn, a place where no one lives," while Thoros had read from the Scroll of Judgment, "Thus saith the Lord of Light: Behold, mine anger and my fury shall be poured out upon this place, upon man and beast, and upon the trees of the field and the fruit of the ground, and it shall burn and not be quenched."

Since they had landed and passed through the Braavosi to take up the burden of the attack the Legion had done their best to execute those words. Every Tyroshi who had come under their weapons had died, the fighting men quickly for that they had made it a matter of kill or be killed but those who hadn't fought had died as slowly as the men could manage in the short time allotted to them, spear and sword thrusts to the belly leaving them curled on the ground and screaming from wounds that would kill them from infection if not from loss of blood. Jorapho had taken little part in such, being content to oversee the work as it was done, but the screams had filled him with a grim satisfaction, and the more so when they came from houses that the Legion had set alight to force the defenders to come out and die or burn. Let the masters learn what it was to be helpless in the power of men who could kill them without consequence, as their slaves had been. Blood demanded blood, and the Iron Legion was minded to settle the bill with interest.

Temple Street, he had learned, was so-named for the Red Temple that sat midway between the gates of the inner city and the docks, which the Tyroshi had taken over and fortified prior to the landing. The priests had been killed, and many of their parishioners with them, for by the end the followers of R'hllor had been viewed as potential traitors as dangerous as the city's slaves; word of the Red Temple of Myr's role in the taking of the city had spread far and wide, and grown in the telling. Jorapho had converted to the Faith when he had been freed, on the grounds that it had been a Seven-worshipping Andal who had conquered the city and freed him and his, but many of his comrades followed the Lord of Light, and the Legion looked out for its own.

Which was why his company had been assigned to take the Red Temple, and was fanning out from a side-street to form a shield-wall the breadth of the great street. As Jorapho took his place in the third rank he turned his spear laterally and placed it across the shoulders of the three men in front of him, both to help urge them forward and to help them keep their alignment. Discipline, the Legion believed as an article of faith, was everything on the battlefield, and the example of the men who had been reduced to teamsters for breaking it had been taken to heart. Ahead of him the front and second-rank men hunkered behind their shields, their spears bristling outwards like the spines of a hedgehog, while behind him the company's crossbowmen loosed the first of many volleys over their heads.

"The company will advance!" called Captain Tychio Ostion, who had been a field hand before the Liberation and had sworn before the assembled company to take the lives of ten slavers as recompense for each of the whip scars that made his back a lattice of ridged flesh. "At the half-step, forward, MARCH!"

The company lifted their shields from where they had braced them against the cobblestones and began to creep forward; at the half-step each pace was only fifteen inches long as opposed to the thirty inches of the quickstep, although each man was still supposed to take one hundred and twenty steps a minute. Jorapho kept his shield up over his face as the company advanced, relying on the pressures on his spear to tell him what was going on in the rank immediately before him; the Tyroshi lodged in the Temple seemed to have no shortage of crossbows and the sound of bolts on shields was like hailstones on roof tiles, interspersed with the occasional groan or scream as a bolt slipped past the wall of double-layered oak to punch through armor. "Close up, there, close up," the officers and his fellow sergeants were already chanting, the familiar litany of commands. "Close that gap, there. Mind your dressing. Damn your eagerness, Garrat, stay in ranks. Close up, now, close up. Steady, lads, don't lose your heads. Keep an even pace, there, Draqos. Steady, lads, steady does it."

Behind him the officers of the crossbowmen were giving their own round of commands. "First rank, advance! Take aim! Loose! Reload! Second rank, advance! Take aim! Loose! Reload! Third rank, advance! Take aim! Loose! Reload! Fourth rank, advance! Take aim! Loose! Reload! First rank, advance! Take aim! Loose! Reload! Second rank, advance!" The bolts were zipping over the heads of the spearmen as the ranks of the crossbowmen passed through each other to keep up a steady rate of fire, aiming at the windows to try and suppress the Tyroshi crossbowmen. The company, Jorapho risked his life to glance from behind his shield, was halfway to the Red Temple and leaving a trail of bodies behind them, but behind their shield-wall and ranks of crossbows there was a party of knights carrying a ram improvised from the mast of a Tyroshi galley, and around them were more knights and men-at-arms with poleaxes and war hammers and longswords. Good men to have on your side in a fight, the knights, with their heavy armor and heavy weapons, but Jorapho was not convinced that most of them properly understood what the wars were _about_. To them the wars were a chance to get rich and become famous, while to the Legion it was a matter of life and death, for they would die before they consented to suffer the collar and lash again. So Jorapho would never fully trust the knights, for all that he would welcome their aid on the battlefield. His trust was reserved for his comrades of the Legion and his king, who had made them free and given them the weapons to prove it.

The Red Temple was looming over them now, a blocky and menacing structure spitting death from every window. "The company will advance at speed, on the command!" Captain Ostion roared over the brabble of dying men and clashing arms from nearby streets. "Company, charge!" The fifth gave a baying roar and broke ranks, rushing forward the last three hundred paces to press themselves against the walls of the Temple where they would be safe from the crossbows. The knights had also broken into a clattering run, and ended it by slamming the ram home against the doors with a hollow _BOOM_. The doors quaked, but did not give, and the knights tried again, backing a short way and then rushing forward to smash the ram against the doors. Meanwhile the spearmen of the fifth were starting to block up the tall and narrowed windows of the ground floor of the Temple with their shields, stripping them off their arms and holding them over the windows until nods from the crossbowmen made them jerk the shields aside, allowing the crossbowmen to shoot inside. Other spearmen were holding their shields overhead against the stones and beams that the Tyroshi were throwing out of the upper windows, although the weight of the projectiles and the height from which they were thrown was sending many men to the ground with arms broken in their shield-straps. On either side of the ram, knights were hacking at the doors with their poleaxes, and the doors themselves were starting to splinter and buckle.

Then a trio of barrels came crashing down from the upper windows and Jorapho's nose wrinkled involuntarily at the smell of boat soap. "Back!" he roared, along with a dozen other sergeants and officers. "Back! Away from the doors!" But a few of the knights either ignored or didn't hear them and when a torch was thrown down they burned, screaming horribly as their armor glowed yellow, then red, in the heat of the flames. One of the knights who had heeded the command to back away stared in horror at his flame-wreathed comrades, and then closed his visor and took a new grip on his poleaxe. "Pull those shields aside!" he barked at the two spearmen who were blocking up the window nearest Jorapho, and when they did so at Jorapho's nod he pushed forward and began chopping at the window's shutters. Half a dozen strokes from the heavy poleaxe were enough to take the shutters off their hinges, but before the knight could do more than roar, "Follow me, those who dare!" a trio of crossbows coughed from within and he was knocked to the ground with bolts through his cuirass and visor. A dozen Legion crossbowmen volleyed their own bolts back through the window in reply, and then a knight with a longsword forced his way through the window and disappeared into the Temple. Jorapho dropped his spear and drew his shortsword as another knight squeezed through the window. "Come on lads, don't let them fight alone!" he shouted, and followed the knights into the Temple.

XXX

In the great hall of the Palace of Order, the Archon of Tyrosh planted his fists on the table that held his map of the city and leaned forward, hunching his shoulders like a man at the wheel. The Myrish gambit against the Bleeding Tower had cracked open the shell of Tyrosh's defenses and from there everything else had gone wrong. The harbor had been lost in the first hour of the assault thanks to the treachery of the never-to-be-sufficiently-damned pirates, although the Braavosi had at least been prevented from expanding their gains beyond the docklands and the harbor moles. But then the Myrish had landed, and the Iron Legion had started chewing through the defensive line that his captains had so hastily put together. Barricade after barricade had been overrun, sometimes within an hour of being erected, and the Legion had begun to spread through the outer city like mold through bread. Jeweler's Row had fallen, and Draper's Street, and Glover's Alley, centuries of prosperity sometimes literally going up in smoke as the Legion burned out those militiamen who had barricaded themselves in their shops. By mid-morning, half of the trades in Tyrosh city had been driven out of their homes or worse; the fishmonger's, shipwright's, and chandler's guilds had all been wiped out to the last apprentice when the Braavosi overran the docklands. Of the thirteen men of his council, five were already dead, three more too wounded to fight on, and the rest were by the gates of the inner walls awaiting orders to lead their companies into the fray; Councilor Varoros had fulfilled his oath to take not one step backward in the defense of the city when his company had been overrun on Temple Street, while Councilor Stallar would never make another speech with his head impaled on a Legion banner.

And now, at high noon, word had just reached him that the Red Temple had been overrun, with no reported survivors. If that was so, then almost a tenth of the best soldiers the city had left had been lost with it; the butcher's and armorer's guilds had committed their militia companies to that defense, and behind them the void was filled only by the survivors of the docklands fighting, who would be in no shape to fight either the Myrish or the Braavosi so soon after being broken. And according to other messengers, the attack up Temple Street was only the head of the assault; its shoulders were advancing as well, if more slowly due to comparative lack of resources. The men around him, subordinates of the captains fighting for their lives in the streets of the city, were busily shading in areas of the map in red grease pencil to indicate areas that had been lost; already a third of the outer city had turned red, and it was growing by the hour.

The Archon knew he was no general, despite the vote of confidence from his council, but even he could see what the only option left to him was. "Withdraw," he said hoarsely. "Withdraw behind the inner walls. It's our only chance."


	77. Chapter 77: The Final Lines

Cities as old as Tyrosh rarely had an inner layer of walls, for the simple reason that by their nature walls impeded movement. It was a rare city that would force its citizens to funnel through narrow gates when they could simply tear down the wall, both opening the streets and providing building materiel for new construction. Especially since it was a rare city that had experienced open warfare in the streets in living memory. The coup of the Tyrant during the days of the Band of Nine had been the exception that proved the rule; no matter how much he claimed legitimacy he had never been able to get past the violence of his ascension.

Tyrosh, however, had not been able to follow the example of her sister cities, for her inner walls were made of dragonstone, the supernally durable material with which the Valyrian Freehold had made its greatest feats of engineering. Harder than granite, harder than steel, harder even than diamond, it had resisted all attempts at demolition, and so it had been left standing. And to tell the truth the elite of Tyrosh had not been too displeased at the walls' survival. The inner city had become their haven, and as in Volantis the walls had provided a handy marker of social status; no one could buy or even rent land within the walls unless he could gain the recommendation of three people who already lived within the walls, which had served to limit new residents to those with both the wealth and the social graces to fit in with their new peers. One of the unspoken rules of the recommendation process was that no one who had made his own fortune could reasonably expect to be recommended, nor could his son. Generally, a family had to be wealthy for at least three or four generations before being allowed within the walls.

But the Archons of Tyrosh had never forgotten the original purpose of the walls, which was to defend the core of Tyrosh against either domestic unrest or foreign invasion. The money allocated to their maintenance had been sparse before the Slave Wars, both for lack of need and in order to spare money for the fleet, but the cleared zone before the walls had been maintained, so that no permanent building stood within twenty feet of the foot of the walls. Not much more had been needed to make the walls as formidable an obstacle as they had ever been, Eddard Stark mused grimly as he watched the Legion fall back from their second unsuccessful assault on the Temple Street Gate. That gate had swung shut almost literally in the face of the Royal Army; whoever had been commanding the gatehouse had evidently been smart enough to realize that the only way to keep the Alliance from breaking through had been to close the gate on their own fellows, in order to prevent the Royal Army from coming through the gate on the cloak-trails of the Tyroshi. Roughly a hundred Tyroshi soldiers had been cut to pieces outside the gate, but a rain of crossbow bolts, stones, and incendiaries from the battlements above had forced the Legion back with almost as many men dead and wounded.

A second attempt had been made using axes and a roof-beam as an improvised ram, but again the efforts of the defenders had proved too much. Incandescent fury and vitriolic hatred were of little avail against such a rampart, especially when no one had brought ready-made scaling ladders. Fortunately, there were other methods of taking a fortified place than by escalade. Eddard turned to Maege Mormont. "Take half the company," he ordered, "ride back to the Bleeding Tower, and start dismounting the engines; knock the windows out and lower them down with ropes if you have to. I want the mangonels battering the gate and the springalds raking the battlements." As Maege saluted and rode away Eddard turned to the Karstark brothers. "Call the Legion back," he said. "I will not allow more lives to be wasted on fruitless assaults against this gate. We have the advantage in numbers; let's use it. Fan the companies out around the whole perimeter of the walls and have them probe for a weak point. Somewhere there'll be a drain that wasn't blocked up, or a stretch of wall where we can get a grapnel up, or a postern we can break down. Find it."

As the Karstark brothers clattered off, roaring commands, Eddard had his trumpeter blow the rally call, and then blow it again and again. Aggression was essential, but it had to be controlled and used in a way that matched strength against weakness. He had made the mistake, before meeting Amarya, of letting his heart rule his head; he would not allow that mistake to befall Robert's army.

XXX

The Archon deliberately held his horse, quite possibly the last horse left in the inner walls of Tyrosh city, to a measured trot as he rode up Palace Way through the lengthening shadows of the afternoon. The report that had reached him from the wall was of the first urgency, but it would not do to appear driven to haste. Panic had caused more defeats than anything else in the history of war, especially in situations such as this.

The defense of the inner city had been going well thus far. The gates had swung shut in the very face of the abolitionists, and their attempts to force them had all been repelled. Their probing of the whole circuit of the walls was troubling, for it required the defenders to move from point to point at speed to keep them from gaining a foothold, but so far every attempt had been beaten back. They had supplies for several months at careful rationing, especially with so many trapped outside the walls, and plentiful ammunition for crossbow and catapult. If they could hold the walls until winter closed the seas, they might yet be able to force a negotiated settlement.

But then a butler had found him at the Temple Street Gate and told him of something that might upset the whole balance. The Archon shook his head. In hindsight, he really should have paid more attention to Concilor Varoros; the silver-haired old stalwart had been the most incendiary voice on the council from the first day of the wars, demanding ever more money, men, and resources of all kinds be set aside for the war effort and that ever-harsher measures be taken against even the slightest hint of servile unrest. It had been Varoros who had instigated the Night of Flames, and done the most to drive the massacres afterwards.

It had also been Varoros who had made the most dire pronouncements on what awaited Tyrosh if it fell to the abolitionists, and what men of worth and honor should do before the end.

He reined in in front of the Varoros manse, an elegantly-built exemplar of its kind, and frowned slightly; the door was standing open. Even if the butler, now dancing nervously from foot to foot by his stirrup, had left it standing open _someone_ should have closed it. That they hadn't boded ill. He dismounted and turned to the captain of his retinue. "Four of your best to follow me, captain, softly and out of sight," he commanded. "It would be unwise to cause any hasty decisions to be made." At the captain's bow he strode up the steps and through the door.

In the great hall of the manse he found a sight that confirmed both the butler's warning and his own fears. Firewood had been piled under and around the great dining table, and more lay around the pillars that supported the high-vaulted roof and the tapestry-decked walls. The wood fairly glistened with oil, and the carpeted floor fairly squelched with it. But it was what was on the table that held his attention. Two young women, their faces set with the waxy rigidity of death, lay upon it, and standing over them was Lady Varoros in her finest gown, her hair immaculately coiffed and her hands and neck heavy with jewels. A pair of servants, evidently freeborn from their lack of collars, stood nearby holding torches.

"Stand fast!" the Archon shouted, making the servants stiffen reflexively. "Lady Varoros, I . . ." the Archon's voice died as Lady Varoros snatched the torch from one of her servants and turned to him. "My lady," he said formally, forcing the sudden terror to the back of his mind; if she dropped that torch, and the butler had told the truth about the whole house being set to go up in flames . . . "give the torch back to your servant, if you please. There is no need for this sort of thing just yet. Perhaps not ever, if we can hold the walls."

The light in Lady Varoros' eyes was beyond insane. "Fool born of fools," she said softly, her voice all the more terrible for the perfection of her diction, "do you not have eyes to see what is happening? The barbarians are at the gates! Ye may prevail against them on the walls for a day, but against the tide that is rising in the west and the north there can be no victory. When they break through then they will run rampant over us, and all that is noble and good and gentle in this world will be destroyed as if it had never been. We will be blotted out of the record of the world, and those of us they allow to live will be the slaves of their slaves. But not I and mine! I will not allow this house which has stood a thousand years to fall to the greed of the barbarians, or suffer my daughters to fall victim to the lusts of the slaves who march with them. If this is how the story of House Varoros ends, then no hand but mine shall write the final lines or close the book!" She raised her arms. "Ancestors!" she cried, her voice the scream of a maddened falcon. "Take us home to you!"

She dropped the torch onto the oil-drenched table, and the Archon turned and sprinted for the door. He made it eight steps before the oil vapors that had pooled just above the carpet caught light with a dull _whump_ and the room exploded.

XXX

_The causes of the Great Fire of Tyrosh remain undetermined up to the present day. Slaver and slaver-sympathizing sources almost unanimously point the finger of blame at the Alliance, who they claim started the fire by launching incendiaries into the inner city with the artillery pieces they took from the Bleeding Tower. That the Alliance was both physically and mentally capable of such an act is beyond dispute, but the assertion is refuted by the reports of the Braavosi provveditores attached to the Great Armament, which unanimously agree that while the Alliance had begun bombarding the city when the first column of smoke was observed within the inner city, they had not yet begun launching incendiaries. In addition to this, it should be remembered that an incendiary bombardment would almost certainly have been a last resort for the Alliance, which would have hoped to preserve the wealthy inner city of Tyrosh until their soldiers could sack it._

_Most Myrish sources, and many Westerosi ones as well, follow the lead of Maester Gordon, who posits that it was the Tyroshi who started the fire, in order to deny the Alliance the sack it sought. The support usually offered for this theory is the atrocities that the Tyroshi committed previously in the war which culminated in the Night of Flames. The Tyroshi, the story goes, had by this time become a nation of madmen so lost to sense and honor as to be capable of anything, even burning their own city. If this is true, then it would present an interesting case of mass psychosis, but it is disproved by the statements of those Tyroshi who survived the Fire; their accounts all agree that, far from deliberately burning the inner city, the plan was to hold the inner wall as long as possible in hopes of winning a negotiated surrender._

_The third possibility comes from Second Sword Antonio Rozzi, whose report offered the theory that the Great Fire was caused by the mishandling or accidental ignition of incendiary munitions within the inner city and then exacerbated by the bombardment and the final assault. Most Braavosi sources support this theory, offering as supporting evidence the fact that Tyrosh had previously attempted to burn a city, and was known by the Commune's secret service to have been bent on acquiring wildfire as a means of improving the odds against them. That Tyrosh was in the market for weapons of all sorts in the months prior to the Third Slave War is a matter of public record, but the assertion that they had acquired a supply of wildfire can be discounted. The records of the Guild of Pyromancers, seized and searched after the Fall of Tyrosh on King Stannis' orders, revealed that only one bottle of wildfire had gone missing between the Sack of King's Landing and the Fall of Tyrosh, and this was almost certainly the bottle used in the attempted destruction of Braavos. It must be considered unlikely that anyone outside the Guild, a notoriously secretive body, could have discovered how to concoct the substance, and in any case there is no physical evidence that wildfire was employed at Tyrosh. Wildfire burns with a distinctive greenish flame, and none of the primary sources of the Great Fire mention green flames._

_Regardless of the causes of the Great Fire, its effects are clear enough. Short of a disease epidemic, medieval civic authorities feared nothing more than a major fire. Even stone buildings had wooden floors, roof-timbers, furnishings, fixtures, etc., and in an age without pressurized hoses or automatic sprinkler systems a fire could run out of control with bewildering speed. In the Building Code of King's Landing, first codified into law in 295 AC, forty of the sixty ordinances were meant to mitigate the risk of fire, as opposed to the ten that were meant to improve sanitation. It is also illustrative that in King's Landing, Braavos, Myr, and Volantis arson and even attempted arson remained punishable by death into the 600s, and even after the death penalty was lifted the mandatory minimum sentence for arson related crimes in Westeros was imprisonment for life at hard labor until 850 AC._

_Given the fear of fire imprinted on the medieval mind, it should not be wondered at that the Great Fire provoked a panic among the defenders of the inner city of Tyrosh. For every soldier that remained at his post one or two deserted to join the bucket brigades, and even those that remained must have fought with one eye looking back over their shoulders. This could not have been helped by the fact that the Allied artillery switched targets from the gates and the battlements of the wall to the inner city itself, disrupting the firefighting efforts and starting new fires by using incendiary munitions that had been originally designed for use as anti-shipping projectiles. It was into the chaos that ensued from this that the final assault on the walls was launched . . ._

\- _Storm and Fury: The Battle for the Center of the World_ by Maester Barnabas, published 2036.

The past six years had given Jaime Lannister a bone-deep appreciation of the fragility of a man's reputation. Before the Sack of King's Landing, his father had been renowned as a just and fair lord, if a strict one; the Reynes and Tarbecks had been in open rebellion, after all, so in strictest law they had deserved everything they had gotten. After the Sack, the respect his father had been held in had changed to fear, and fear laced with contempt, at that. With some justice, Jaime was willing to admit; how else were people supposed to take the fact that he had sacked a city that he had entered as a friend and ally?

For his own part, Jaime had seen his own reputation take a terrible beating in Pentos, when only blind luck and Gregor Clegane's prowess had kept him alive and uncaptured in his first independent command. He had gone some way to repairing that beating in the Battle of Pentos and the pursuit after the Battle of Tara, but he had still heard the whispers that perhaps the Lion of Lannister was more alley-cat than lion. It was why he had applied himself so diligently to his tutelage under Lyn Corbray and followed the Blackfish's strictures on the science and art of soldiering so rigorously. He was well aware that his right to sit in the command council of the Sunset Company had been a product of his birth, and he knew, now, that his being named to the Kingsguard had as much to do with his being a hostage against his father's loyalty as with his prowess. He was determined to _earn_ whatever laurels he received henceforward.

Which was why he had volunteered to lead the assault on the wall of the inner city of Tyrosh as the sun lowered towards the horizon. Outside of a tournament, there was no more conspicuous a way to earn a reputation than to lead an assault against a fortified place, if only because it could be readily seen who went up each ladder and how well they did. And leaving aside reputation, even leaving aside the fact that he never felt so _alive_ as when he fought, leading such assaults was what knights were _for_. It was, Jaime had learned in Essos in a way that he probably never would have learned in Westeros, how a knight paid for the armor and the sword and the lands and the respect of the smallfolk and all the rest. He who did the most was worth the most.

So when the ladder, a hastily-built affair that the Braavosi ship's carpenter had assured him was sturdier than it looked, scraped against the wall, Jaime roared "Follow me!" at the rest of the storming party and swarmed up the ladder, letting his legs power him upward and letting his left hand guide him up the siderail while his right hand held his longsword. He had time to be afraid, but he was comforted by three things. Firstly, he had seen for himself before the attack went forward that the Tyroshi had been in confusion on the wall-top. Secondly, the assault was closely supported by both cavalry archers and Legion and Braavosi crossbowmen and even over the chaotic brabble of noise from the assault and the fire that had evidently sprung up inside the walls he could hear the whistling of wind through the arrow flights as they showered the battlements with projectiles. Thirdly, he had come a long way from the callow young knight who had been ambushed and very nearly killed or taken on that dusty road in Pentos; the forge of the Conquest of Myr, the anvil of the coastal fighting in the first war, and the tempering of the second war and the Battle of Solva had made him a living sword of a man. In Westeros he had been known as a promising squire and a fine young knight, one of those rare men for whom wielding sword and lance came naturally. Essos had taken that promising young man, given him a reason to live up to that promise, and honed him to a killing edge.

So when Jaime reached the top of the wall to find himself facing a Tyroshi crossbowman in the crenel before the summit of his ladder, it didn't take so much as a conscious thought for him to put the point of his longsword through the Tyroshi's throat-bole and flow through the crenel like a weasel through a mousehole. Another Tyroshi raised his crossbow to shoot, but the bow wasn't even halfway to his shoulder before Jaime's blade lashed out in a diagonal cut and the crossbow exploded as he cut through the bowstring and released the huge forces restrained by the bow's mechanisms. The Tyroshi flinched away reflexively and Jaime took advantage of his distraction to kill the man next to him who had dropped his own crossbow to claw at his sidesword. A third Tyroshi came at him with an axe that slid off Jaime's blade as he brought it up to the guard of the window and a thrust-kick hammered the Tyroshi backwards and very nearly off the wall entirely. Jaime turned back, killed the Tyroshi whose crossbow he had destroyed with a snapping forehand lateral cut that took off all the man's head above his lower jaw, and then turned right to charge with lowered shoulder against the Tyroshi who had managed to draw his falchion and bring it up for the sort of overhand chop that weapon was best at.

Jaime's pauldron-encased shoulder hit the Tyroshi squarely in the upper chest and knocked him flying as his arm bounced off Jaime's bascinet. Jaime pressed forward, stamping on the man's arm to break it as he went, and began cutting his way along the wall towards the next ladder over, letting the other men of his column follow him onto the wall. This was the sort of fighting that knights were best at, this close-quarters brawling where armor and strength and skill and endurance mattered most, and Jaime's heart rejoiced as he slew the Tyroshi like a steel-clad lion among so many sheep. _This_ was what a knight did, and by all the gods old and new, _he was a knight_.

It was that spirit of exultation that carried him along the wall from ladder to ladder until at last he came to the gatehouse, where in six blows he killed the gatehouse's captain, his lieutenant, and four of his sergeants. As his men opened the gates to let the Legion into the burning city Jamie knelt, knocking his visor up to suck down air as he smiled; let men deny his worth now, if they dared.

XXX

Eddard undid the chinstrap of his bascinet, pulled it off his head, and looked the Legion captain square in the face in the late evening light. "Captain," he said civilly, "you need to pull your men out of the line. Get them back from the wall and down Temple Street to Jeweler's Row, at the double."

The captain, a burly man with the flat face and copper skin of a Lhazareen, stared at him incredulously. "The hell you say!" he eventually spluttered, gesturing at the opened gates and the flood of men pressing through them. "The inner city is fallen! This is our chance for the revenge King Robert promised us!"

"And what good will that revenge be to dead men?" Eddard demanded. "_The city is on fire_. Give it two hours, maybe three, and there will be nothing in the inner city but ash and charred bones. _Your _charred bones, and your men's, if you don't keep them out of there."

The captain's face turned stormy. "So you'll let the slavers retake the walls?" he challenged. "Let them rebuild their defenses so that we have to take them all over again?"

"Any slavers left are fighting the fires," Eddard replied. "And losing. They'll burn with the inner city, and I hope they burn slowly. What we need to do," he leaned down in the saddle, "is keep the fire out of the outer city. If we can pull the men who are already in the city back to the wall and start fire watches in the streets around the walls, then we can keep the outer city from going up. But first we need to get the men behind them out of the way or else they won't be able to pull back. That means you, captain, need to get your men moving back down the street, and quick, before we start losing men to the flames and the heat."

The captain's jaw set. "I am not moving my company one inch backwards, my lord," he said flatly. "We have debts to settle with the slavers, and by the gods, we _will _settle them."

"Are you disobeying a direct order?" Eddard asked coldly.

The captain had opened his mouth to answer when a ringing of horseshoes on the cobblestones heralded the arrival of Robert, surrounded by his household men. "Heard you were in something of a fix, Ned," he boomed, waving off Eddard's nod and the captain's bow, "so I came up to lend a hand. What passes here?"

"We need to get the street behind the gate cleared before we pull the other men out of the inner city, Your Grace," Eddard reported. "The captain here is refusing to move his company."

Robert turned a baleful glare on the captain. "_Do it_," he snapped. "Or take your armor off and report to the quartermasters."

The captain blanched, then threw a salute and marched away, roaring commands at his lieutenants and sergeants. Eddard breathed a sigh of relief; for a moment, he had feared that the man would refuse even Robert's orders. He had seen the light in the man's eyes, and it had not been human; fortunately Robert's voice had penetrated the bloodlust. As the company began to turn about and trudge away from the gate Robert turned back to him. "I take it you'll want me back here directing traffic while you go into that mess?" He gestured at the red-lit pandemonium within the gates; Eddard nodded. "Alright then," Robert said. "But mark me, Ned; not one Tyroshi walks out of that place alive. If we're going to deny our men their vengeance, then we can at least make sure that the fire takes it for them."

Eddard saluted, turned his horse, and spurred it into the river of soldiers, his household men following. Even fifty warhorses were enough to slow the stream of armed humanity, allowing the half-company that Eddard had managed to keep in hand to run across the road and form a shield-wall facing down Temple Street. Eddard left them to block the ingress of even more soldiers into the inner city and led his men through the gates into the last madness of Tyrosh.

_The Great Fire of Tyrosh would burn for the rest of the day, all of that night, and into the next morning before it began to peter out. The damage was gruesome; roughly three quarters of the inner city of Tyrosh was destroyed, and most of the buildings that survived were damaged to one degree or another. The outer city was spared, but it was a close-run thing; flying embers that made it over the wall managed to set twelve houses and eight other buildings alight, and only the vigilance of the bucket brigades that each Myrish and Braavosi company became prevented the conflagration from spreading._

_The human cost of the fire was commensurate with the loss of property; of the roughly ten thousand Tyroshi citizens of the inner city, only five hundred and sixty-two are known to have survived, and most of these were later hanged by the Myrish. How many Myrish and Braavosi soldiers died as a result of the Great Fire is unclear, as their casualty reports were inclusive of the whole battle, but Eddard Stark later admitted in a letter to his brother Brandon that he almost certainly failed to save two or three hundred men "who were so avid for loot that they would not be dissuaded from entering the inner city, and burned with their spoils."_

_The aftermath of the Great Fire proved to be almost as stressful as the taking of the city, for even as the flames began to die the temperature dropped, and the very next day snow flurries fell on the island. Winter was coming . . ._

\- _Storm and Fury: The Battle for the Center of the World_ by Maester Barnabas, published 2036.


	78. Chapter 78: Upon the Ashes

Maester Gordon had always loved history. Where other boys had thrilled to the legends of the children of Garth Greenhand or the tales of Serwyn of the Mirror Shield, Gordon had been more drawn to stories of the Blackfyre Rebellions and the deeds of Ser Duncan the Tall. History had a relevance and an immediacy that he had never found in the legends, and he had loved nothing more than to read of Jaehaerys the Conciliator's acts or Daeron the Young Dragon's wars. But while history had been a popular field at the Citadel, the chance to undertake original research had been rare and usually confined to a handful of students. Actually writing a book had required both such a chance and a powerful patron, which Gordon the stonemason's son could never have hoped to acquire. In theory there was no rank among the maesters except that conferred by scholarship, but it was still all too easy to discern who had been a lord's son and who hadn't; you simply looked for who got the plum assignments.

So Gordon had, regretfully, resigned himself to basing his chain on architecture, engineering, and a few links in the minor fields of medicine, and all but given up hope of writing a work of history. But then he had been assigned to the Sunset Company and found himself living through history, and some of the best history since at least the War of the Ninepenny Kings, if not the Conquest, at that. As enjoyable as his tenure as captain of the Pioneers had been, his assignment as King Robert's chronicler was a dream come true. Ever since receiving the assignment he had done his utmost to follow the Citadel's commandments of historiography, the first of which was to never get your information secondhand if you could help it. The dream of any historical researcher was to be able to collect an eyewitness account as soon after the even as possible, before the foibles of human memory started to embroider facts. And thankfully his health had sufficiently recovered to allow him to accompany the army.

Which was why Gordon had joined the assault on Tyrosh, officially as a member of the medical train but really in order to collect accounts of the city's fall from the men who had thrown it down. In between stitching and splinting he had sat by bedsides with pen and parchment taking down the recollections of wounded men, or else sitting in King Robert's command post and scribbling down everything he heard. It was how he had come to witness the submission of the pirate captains who had joined the Alliance and record the knighting of Ser Davos Blacksail for securing their loyalty. He had also dutifully taken down the names of those captains like Irlodos Orlinar and Donnel Hawkins who had died fighting in the harbor, and whom Robert had promised to raise a memorial to, and also record the sentence of outlawry passed against Salladhor Saan, who had not taken part in the battle and fled for points unknown.

It was also how he had come to be summoned to join Robert for the day's ceremonies, which had been hastily planned and even more hastily laid on. The freak snow shower that had hit Tyrosh the night the Great Fire ended had neither stuck nor had it been repeated, but it had still been taken as an omen. For snow to fly this far south before the white ravens had even flown was clearly a sign of a hard winter coming on fast, and so the decision had been made to move the army back to the mainland as swiftly as possible. The first ships had sailed on that morning's tide, loaded with wounded, and more were due to sail throughout the day. But before Robert sailed, or Second Sword Rozzi, there were matters that had to be attended to.

The first had been the disposition of those Tyroshi who had survived the Great Fire; all five hundred and sixty-two of them, out of what must have been thousands if not tens of thousands. Two hundred and seven had been minor children who had been remanded to the custody of the Braavosi, who would raise them as wards of the Commune. The rest had been taken to the site of the former Palace of Order, now a charred skeleton, and beheaded for lack of a structure sturdy enough to hang them from and lack of time to build suitable gallows. When Lord Stark had decapitated the last Tyroshi soldier, Robert had taken one of the Dragons off of the chain around his neck and thrown it into the widening pool of blood. "Tyrosh," he had said coldly, "our debt is settled." The witnessing legionaries had all cheered as had many of the knights, but Gordon had noticed that Ser Lyn Corbray could not hide a sour look. Of course, that was probably because there had been very little loot from the inner city, and not much from the outer city either after it was divided among both the Royal Army and the Great Armament. Ser Lyn had a fearsome reputation but he was not, Gordon believed, a very complicated man at bottom.

The next matter to be attended to had been the installation of Cassio Dorrma as Governor-General of Martyros, as the isle of Tyrosh had been renamed (Gordon suspected that it would be some time before the new name caught on outside of official correspondence). This had been accomplished by Second Sword Rozzi reading out a short speech commending the isle to Dorrma's care on behalf of the Commune and presenting him with a short, heavy baton of white wood as his symbol of office, in reply to which Dorrma had pledged to serve the Commune well and faithfully, make a full account of his actions when called upon, and execute the Titan's laws rigorously. Rozzi and Dorrma had then turned to Robert and sworn on behalf of the Titan to uphold the terms of the alliance, yielding sovereignty over the mainland possessions of Tyrosh in return for retaining sovereignty over Tyrosh's island possessions. This Robert had agreed to, pledging to uphold the alliance, and the ceremonies had wrapped up with Robert swearing on his hammer and Rozzi swearing on his sword to do everything in their power to maintain the alliance.

No sooner had they sworn than Robert and his retinue had gone down to the docks to oversee the embarkation of the rest of the Royal Army; no one wanted to take chances with winter announcing its arrival in such fashion. Robert had sailed on the next ship, leaving Lord Stark in command until the last ship had sailed. Gordon had sailed with Robert, having resolved not to leave his king's side until the last vestiges of the war were wrapped up. This was too great an opportunity for any lover of history to miss, much less one who had been denied as long as Gordon had been.

XXX

_The following is an excerpt from _Flash on the High Seas_by George Dand._

The letter calling me back to Westeros arrived two days after Robert sailed away, of all the luck; if it had come three days sooner I might have been able to find a place on his ship and toady him back to Myr on the pretext of being able to find better passage there. It might not have been strictly true, but very few people are immune to flattery. I think the only two people I've ever met who were immune to it were Stannis and Tywin Lannister, although Tywin had his weak moments.

As it was, I was able to snag a berth on a Braavosi galley whose captain had decided to chance the King's Landing run on a hunch that pre-Fall Tyroshi brandy might be able to command a good price, especially since it was unlikely that there would be any more for some time. Keen as hounds after a fox for a good deal, the Braavosi, but that one more so than most, in order to not only find the brandy undrunk and unspoiled by the fires but to keep it out of his crew's hands. And since he and his men had been mustered out of the Titan's service, they were free to make what deals they pleased while they could before winter made sea travel too risky for regular trade.

Nor were they the only ones. The Great Armament was a feat of mustering and provisioning probably unequalled in my lifetime, but the men who crewed and fought it were by no means all regulars. Only about two or three ships in every ten were crewed by full-time Fleet sailors, the rest had been crewed by volunteer citizens. Admittedly most of them had had at least some experience of naval combat, but still and all, they had been more-or-less normal burghers before the call had gone out for men to crew the ships. It's why I've never been disrespectful of the third estate since; I've seen what they can do when they put their hands and minds to it. But in any case, something like two thirds of the Great Armament was mustered out of service after Dorrma took the oath, and galleys went everywhere. Most of them went straight back to Braavos with chits for the back pay drawn on the Iron Bank, but plenty went either to Myrish territory or to Westeros. Some, like my captain, were planning flying visits to get some trading in, but most were looking for a place where they could bed down for the winter, get their galleys in proper order, and do some _serious _trading.

I was glad to get off of Tyrosh by then, I don't mind telling you. Most of the city's prewar population was dead, after all, and the inner city was _dead_; hardly a single intact building in the whole place. Dorrma and his officers had taken over a tavern in the outer city that was only mostly pillaged as the new seat of government and the harbor district was more or less full from the hundred-odd ships that the Braavosi were leaving in Tyrosh as a garrison (all regulars, these) but the rest of the city was quiet enough to give even strong men the heebies. It just doesn't feel natural to walk around a city and not see people; makes you wonder if whatever's waiting around the next corner is responsible for all the people disappearing. I've had some weird and unseelie experiences in my life of arms, but walking through destroyed Tyrosh was one of the weirdest and all of it had been made by the hand of man. Curious, eh?

Of course, by then it wasn't Tyrosh anymore; the Braavosi had renamed it Martyros, in honor of all the people who had died in the Slave Wars. A silly name, in my opinion, and one that I thought would never catch on. It still hasn't, in some quarters, but it's gained a fair amount of traction over the years, largely because the people who grew up knowing it as Tyrosh have started to die out. It wouldn't be my last time visiting that island, but at the time I was grateful to be done with Essos and its troubles. And hoping my recall would let me take some well-earned time to spend my share of the spoils at home and bask in the glory of the war to my peers; rather than riding off posthaste on some errand for His Nibs. I'd had my fill of blood and then some. If I had known what was waiting for me back in Westeros, though . . .

XXX

Willet Longsword, until recently simply Willet son of Anthor, couldn't help raising his eyebrows as he walked through the streets of Aesica, although he was at least able to stop himself from gaping. He had been here before, and had seen cities that made Aesica look like the moderately-sized town it was, but the change from when he had first seen it was astonishing. From a moderately prosperous seaport town that held maybe four or five thousand citizens, it had grown to a sprawling city of almost twenty thousand as the Royal Army of Myr and the army of Braavos returned from the conquest of Tyrosh. The sense of dislocation was all the greater for it being less than a decade ago he had first seen a town of Aesica's size, much less a city.

It had been seven years since he and five friends from the Painted Dogs had joined the crew of a smuggler who had landed to trade wine and steel tools and weapons for pelts and amber and plunder taken in raids against the Andals. He had always had an itch to _know_, even as a lad, and the smuggler had offered to take him and his friends aboard and help them see the world if they would lend him their spears and strong arms against danger. His uncles hadn't liked the idea, claiming that the tribe could not afford to spare warriors, but Willet and his friends had all been grown men and free to go their own way, so they had gone aboard. Three of those five were dead now; one knifed in a tavern in Volantis, one taken by the sea in a storm, and one killed when their ship had been attacked and taken by pirates when passing through the Stepstones. Willet had survived that fight, and with his two remaining friends Dovas and Hokkan had joined the crew of the pirate who had taken them, one Jaime Burns, who sailed under the banner of Donnel Hawkins.

Willet had risen quickly in Burns's crew by virtue of his strength, prowess, and ferocity, and when Hawkins had summoned them to Bloodstone to join Salladhor Saan's fleet Willet had held the rank of master-at-arms. And when Burns had been killed fighting in Tyrosh harbor after the fleet had turned it's coat Willet had taken command as the highest-ranking officer still on their feet; a position he had held for all of ten minutes before the ship had taken a volley of heavy springald bolts from a Tyroshi cog that had sunk her. Fortunately she had sunk slowly enough that Willet had been able to get the crew off and join the fighting in the city, where they had gotten enough plunder to allow the crew to split up and let each man make his own way. For his part Willet had acquired a finely-made longsword from a dead Tyroshi officer that he couldn't stop fingering. Never in his life had he ever dreamed of holding such a weapon, a wide-bladed yet superbly balanced blade with a cross-section like a wide and flat diamond. The first time he had used it, on a Tyroshi soldier who didn't surrender quickly enough, he had been caught off-guard and unbalanced by how easily the blade had taken the man's arm off at the shoulder.

Willet and Hokkan (Dovas had been killed in the harbor) had sworn themselves to a Myrish lord named Branton, who had been looking for swords to replace the ones he had lost helping to take the Red Temple. Lord Branton seemed a decent sort for an Andal, if more self-effacing and colorless than Willet found entirely proper even if the man was a sub-lord to Ser Wendel Manderly, but Willet had not taken service with him in order to seek a permanent position. If the past few years, and especially the Fall of Tyrosh, had taught him anything it was that the world was being shaken loose. When he had first seen Tyrosh the sheer size of the city had frankly terrified him; he had not imagined that there were so many people in all the world, much less that they would pack themselves so closely together. Now Tyrosh was ash and its people food for crows, destroyed by men who had previously been their slaves.

If slaves could do such things, then why could not his people do even greater things? It had been long years since Willet had laid eyes on his native mountains, but he was still Willet son of Anthor, and he remembered where he came from and who his people were. The old ways were being swept aside; he could feel it in his bones. In times such as these, when the order of things was being remade, a man of strength and cunning could make something great of himself, if the gods favored him and he was not afraid to seize his chance. Willet would serve until that chance presented itself, and then he would seize it with both hands.

XXX

The two commanders met under an iron sky in a farmer's field in the no-man's-land between their forces, roughly forty miles north-east of Sinuessa. Their escorts hung back, glowering at each other under their raised visors as the commanders rode towards each other; the heralds had chosen this site because of the lack of cover, but neither side was happy about letting their principal out of reach. The knight and the sellsword both dismounted with the easy grace of natural horsemen and exchanged salutes. "Daario Naharis, Captain-General of Lys, at your service," the sellsword said with a bow.

The knight returned the bow. "Ser Brynden Tully, Master of Soldiers to His Grace King Robert, at yours," he replied. "Before we go further, I trust you will understand that nothing I say here can bind His Grace? I am but one of his officers and have no authority to negotiate a general peace."

"Of course, of course," Daario replied, waving a hand. "Strictly speaking, I cannot speak for the Gonfalonier, much less the Conclave as a whole. But we can speak for ourselves as soldiers and the forces under our command, no?"

Brynden nodded. "Aye, that we can," he allowed. "Hopefully we can leave aside the folderol about claims, as well. Especially since King Robert's claims include essentially everything east of the Narrow Sea that isn't Braavosi. Freedom has no boundary, as Septon Jonothor is fond of saying."

Daario nodded back. "Indeed. In respect of which, I am willing to abandon Brivas in return for a truce. My mother, gods rest her soul, taught me to never bite off more than I can chew."

"In return for keeping Sinuessa?" Brynden asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Along with a hinterland that includes the coast directly west of it, with Vulture's Cape," Daario answered. "And that spans, shall we say, twenty miles north and east of the city? It will need to be able to support itself with only minimal help from the rest of our mainland possessions, and that will include the better part of its good farmland."

"Will you allow the slaves in Sinuessa the choice of remaining with their masters or emigrating to us?" Brynden asked. "I would be remiss if I did not ask."

Daario made a face. "Unfortunately, such a concession is not within my power to give outright," he said, "but I trust you will have heard of the new law that the Conclave has passed which allows for a transition from slavery to indentured servitude and emancipation after a term of years? As it stands, the law must be adopted by each district before it has any force, but I can and will impose it in Sinuessa."

Brynden's bushy eyebrow lifted again. "Without reference to the Gonfalonier or the Conclave?"

"The part of my contract that I made non-negotiable was that the Conclave grant me proconsular powers," Daario replied, a slight smile stealing across his face. "I believe the actual line reads something along the lines of, 'when deployed in the field with his army in time of war, the Captain-General shall do that which he deems fit and proper for the safety, security, and advantage of Lys, and shall be deemed to have full powers of command within the endangered region.' Essentially, Ser Brynden, in Sinuessa and along the whole border to a depth of about twenty miles, I have the legal authority to do damned near anything I can justify as militarily expedient. I believe that neutralizing a potential source of rebellion counts, don't you?"

Both of Brynden's eyebrows rose, almost into his hairline. "Indeed," he said. "I imagine that those powers include the ability to put down resistance to the imposition of that law?"

Daario's smile was that of a well-fed and satisfied feline. "By any means I deem necessary, against . . . anyone, really. I even have the Gonfalonier's backing on that one. He is of the opinion that the fewer fools we are burdened with, the better."

Brynden nodded. "I imagine that there will be some resistance anyway," he said. "Mark me, Captain-General; I don't want to hear anything about slaves, or indentured servants for that matter, being abused in Lyseni territory. No loopholing by their masters, no debt-bondage, no crime sprees, and especially no riots and no massacres like the Tyroshi did. If I hear one word about anything like the Night of Flames, then the truce is off and we march."

Daario nodded soberly. "I will personally undertake to ensure that no such barbarity occurs," he said. "One city burned to the ground is enough for one century, no? In aid of which, I am willing to order the freeborn population of Brivas to evacuate the town. Their movable property I will have to let them carry away with them, but I _can_ order them to leave their slaves behind."

Brynden nodded. "That would be helpful," he allowed. "And I can certainly keep my cavalry from harassing them as they go; the collapse of the Tyroshi has led to more banditry than His Grace would be willing to publicly admit. We will have enough heads to break within our borders without looking for more outside them."

Daario bowed. "That will certainly make the task much easier than it otherwise would. And I trust that we are both aware that we have little enough time to work with." He gestured at the low, dark grey clouds overhead. There hadn't been any snow beyond the freak squall reported from Tyrosh isle, but short and violent showers of cold rain had become a daily occurrence. The ground squished beneath their feet from the one that had happened this morning, and the temperature was low enough that the fur-lined cloaks they wore were not affectations but necessities.

Brynden nodded. "We received a dispatch yesterday that the white ravens had flown from the Citadel," he confirmed. "The news came to us late because they can't cross the Narrow Sea in one bound; they have to hop across the Stepstones." He looked out across the field for a long moment, his face pensive. "I am willing to accept these terms as the basis of a truce," he said finally, "but in order for them to become the terms of a peace they will have to be accepted by King Robert. I will advocate for them as much as I can, but I can make no guarantees."

"Nor can I guarantee that the Conclave will accept them," Daario replied. "But I will swear upon my honor as a man-at-arms that I will enforce them to the best of my abilities until ordered otherwise, and advocate for them as forcefully as I can before the Conclave."

"Then so will I swear as well," Brynden said. "I would swear on my sword, but drawing it would give our comrades the wrong idea, I think. Shall we shake hands on it instead?"

"By all means," Daario said, shucking off his riding glove. Brynden did the same, and they clasped hands.

XXX

_In one of history's many dark ironies, Martyros would begin its history much as Tyrosh had, as a military outpost. While officially a civil colony claiming not only the city, but all the former Tyroshi and Myrish Stepstones for its jurisdiction, the city had been nearly depopulated by the twin genocides carried out by the Tyroshi and the Abolitionist Alliance._

_Through its first winter Martyros was primarily peopled by the Braavosi viceregal government and garrison; the meager civilian population consisting of a small number of freedmen who had survived the destruction and chosen to stay and a few daring immigrants gambling that they could make their fortune even in the face of winter._

_For Braavos, it would prove a harsh winter. Not only was the sack far less lucrative than expected but the skilled workers and much of the knowledge of the famed dye trade and sea slug harvesting was lost to massacre and fire. It would be the work of a generation to see the dye works recover from what could be salvaged and longer still until it matched the prewar production for either quality or quantity._

_And with the dispersal of the Great Armament the Brethren of the Waves would return daring the winter seas as only pirates could. Although they could not seriously threaten the Braavosi hold on the city their harassment of supply lines and raids on island outposts would be the opening blows in the long and complex struggle between the Titan and the pirates for who ruled the Southern Narrow Sea._

_But spring would bring renewal to the city. For along with the news of battle word spread of a city emptied. Of bakeries awaiting bakers to tend their ovens, of looms left to grow dusty, and of forges awaiting smiths. A city lacking in merchants, servants, scribes and every other occupation._

_Although the migration of Old Faithers to Old Andalos continued, the main flow of Westerosi would shift south with men of all stripes setting out to seize a chance too great to let pass. And the Westerosi were not alone. The Braavosi would also join the migration, some out of patriotism but many simply seeking opportunities that Braavos lacked and Pentos had fallen short of. Even the Myrish would leave their mark, in the form of many Freeborn who had managed to survive the Sack in reduced circumstances saw the new city as a chance for a fresh start under a regime that might be more palatable._

_It was the long and troubled birth of not only a city but a people upon the ruins of Tyrosh that was . . ._

\- _Between East and West: A Beginner's History of the Stepstones_ by Maester Humphrey, published 897 AC


	79. Chapter 79: Visions of Vengeance

Khal Pobo nodded to himself in satisfaction. The crossing was going as smoothly as could be asked for.

The war between the walkers of Volantis and the walkers of Qohor might have disrupted his whole endeavor, for part of the tribute the walkers of Qohor paid was that they ferried khalasars across the Rhoyne if the khalasar stopped at their city first and told them where and when to meet them. The walkers of Qohor had been almost tearfully apologetic when they had told Pobo that they couldn't uphold that agreement and warned him that the Volantenes who now ruled Dagger Lake and the river below it were unmannerly people who weren't likely to be amenable. But the walkers that the Volantenes had left in command had been delighted to hear that Pobo and his fellow khals sought to cross the Rhoyne to make war against Myr; the new walkers of Myr, they had explained, were the enemies of their Khal Viserys, and they would happily ferry the khalasar across if only Pobo would promise to bring them the skull of Robert Baratheon, who had killed their Viserys's older brother.

Pobo had readily made that promise. Properly speaking, a blood feud had to be conducted in person, but Khal Viserys was young still, and it was acceptable for a boy who had not yet reached a man's years to ask others to take his vengeance for him. And from what his riders had told him, Khal Viserys was attentive and brave when his kos taught him the use of weapons and had recently led his khalasar to victory, which boded well for the years of his manhood. His ko Ser Arthur Dayne, on the other hand, was less admirable. Being bound to his khal's side was a valid excuse for not pursuing his feud with Eddard Stark, but it had been unmanly of him to come to Pobo's fire and offer to fill his hands with gold coins if he brought Stark's skull back with Baratheon's. Especially since he had admitted to failing to kill Eddard the last time they had met. If this "Sword of the Morning" was too weak to take vengeance for his khal and his sister, then he should open his throat and go to be their slave in the nightlands.

He would still kill Eddard Stark though, but he would do it for Khal Zirqo and the men who had died at Narrow Run. On the ride west from Vaes Dothrak he had questioned every passing trader about the Andal ko who fought under the sign of the wolf and killed his khal, and he had heard much from them about the Iron Wolf. Pobo had hunted wolves before; with the Midnight Mare's help, this one would be little different.

On the bank of the river twenty yards away a Volantene barge ground ashore and disgorged its load. The Rhoyne was too broad and too deep just below Fort Dagger to be bridged, but the Volantenes had a dozen great barges that they ordinarily used to carry wains across the river. With each barge carrying a dozen men and horses each trip and making the quarter-mile journey once an hour, it would take approximately seventeen days to land all twenty-five thousand of the khalasar's riders on the east bank of the river and longer to cross the women, children, and herds, but Pobo had little fear of being caught with the river dividing his forces. Winter was upon them, after all, and even if the walkers of Myr hadn't just conquered Tyrosh they wouldn't venture out this far. For one thing, it was far beyond even the furthest react of their power, and for another the walkers of Myr were weak to cold and did not travel in winter. Pobo snorted derisively. Winter along the coast was not cold, nor winter along the great river, for that matter. Winter on the plains, now, _that_ was cold.

His gaze flicked back across the river and he couldn't help a grimace. If only he had been able to convince Khal Drogo to join him . . .

XXX

"Fortune favors the bold" was an Andal saying, not a Dothraki one, but any Dothraki would agree with it. Indeed, many of their sayings conveyed a similar sentiment. How not, when it was known that strength and skill were meaningless without the will to put them to the test and risk all for the sake of fame and fortune and honor?

Which was why, Drogo reflected, his khalasar was on the move while the walker armies were burrowing into their winter quarters like marmots.

The great river blunted the edge of winter, but even though winter on the Rhoyne was nothing compared to winter on the plains this winter had all the signs of being a hard one. His original plan had been for his khalasar to pitch their winter camp in the lands that the Volantenes had newly claimed, in order to let his people benefit from the milder climate while he heard the news and contemplated where they would ride next when the snows melted. His kos had been in negotiations with the kos of Khal Viserys over what gifts he might offer to win Drogo's friendship, and those negotiations might have led to others, for Khal Viserys had professed himself eager to be Drogo's friend. His people had heartily approved of the plan, especially the women and elders, for it was a rare winter on the plains that did not see at least a few elders and new children die of cold or hunger, and the prospect of everyone surviving to see the snows melt was a welcome one.

And then Pobo had arrived and kicked over the milking bucket.

One of the underpinnings of the Dothraki code of manhood was that an offense had to be repaid with death. An offense as great as the murder of a khal under a truce flag demanded every death that could be taken in recompense. And not just for the sake of honor, either, but for the sake of survival, for the Midnight Mare was not known to be discriminate in her wrath. If Drogo had remained idle over the winter then the loss of face would have been potentially catastrophic, regardless of the outcome of Pobo's feud. If Pobo had won, then Drogo would have been the coward who had refused the call to vengeance and denied his riders the honor of taking part in such a feud, as well as the plunder that could be had in the west. If, on the other hand, Pobo was defeated, then Drogo would have been the faintheart who's inaction had caused Pobo's failure. If only, the story would go, Pobo had had Drogo's riders at his disposal.

Which had made for a thorny problem, for Drogo had had no intention whatsoever of putting himself under the command of a khal who only held his position by virtue of surviving a massacre. Especially when that khal was bent on facing a foe with such a mighty reputation. If the god willed that he cross blades with the Black Stag, then that would be as it would be, but only a coward let the god rule his fate without doing what he could to swing the balance in his favor. Drogo could see no good coming from facing the walkers of Myr, who despite being walkers had a good reputation as warriors, while being under the command of a fool blinded by his obsession.

Fortunately, there was a shame even greater than Pobo's that had yet to be rectified, and the opportunity had arisen to do so. The defeat of Khal Temmo at the hands of the Three Thousand of Qohor had yet to be redressed, and Drogo had learned of the terms that the Volantenes had forced on the followers of the Black Goat over fires shared with Khal Viserys and his kos. Qohor had been stripped of almost all of it's Unsullied, and with their wealth lost to the Volantenes they had little money left to buy sellswords. And Pobo's horde had brought the news, heard from merchants, that the price of Unsullied had risen too high even for the wealthiest of walkers to pay, and that the Qohori had not been able to renew their order with the walkers of Astapor.

The banks of the Qhoyne would not be as warm as those of the great river it fed, but they would be warm enough when the towns and villages of the Black Goat burned. The trade that the Qohori depended on would feed Drogo's people better than they, for only the strong deserved to eat their fill of the best. And when the snows melted and the Qohori were weakened by a winter of war, then there would be a reckoning for Khal Temmo and his riders.

Drogo smiled to himself. Pobo had been right about one thing, when he had brooded over the fire he had shared with Drogo the night he had arrived at the banks of the Rhoyne. The wind was bringing not just winter, but _change_. The defeat of Khal Temmo had broken the momentum that had begun with Khal Mengo's victories, when the Dothraki had been all-powerful from the Narrow Sea to the Mountains of Bone. If that defeat could be avenged, then who knew but that a new age might dawn when the horselords might be able to ride unchecked from the Mountains to the Sea and make the whole of their world grass for horses.

XXX

Ser Arthur Dayne raised an eyebrow. "You're quite serious?" he asked incredulously.

Ser Clarence Webber shrugged. "I would be remiss if I did not recommend it on behalf of my captain," he said defensively. "I am aware of the Westerosi skepticism about magic, of course, and it is true that the Rhoynar are a shadow of their former prowess and glory, but there is power yet in some of them. There is more in the world, Ser Arthur, than is found in the books of your maesters." The two knights were walking down the 'main street' of the Dragon Company's winter encampment. Fort Dagger was the centerpiece, but the fort was not large enough to contain the whole of the company, and so a small town of earth-and-timber huts had been erected in order to give everyone a place out of the weather. The Golden Company had been called back to Volantis, but Ser Clarence Webber had remained behind with fifty of the Golden Company's lances and helped to lay out the camp; apparently the Golden Company used the same design, based on the marching camps of the Ghiscari legions. Ser Garin Uller had taken fifty of the Dragon Company's lances and gone with the Golden Company to return the gesture of trust and friendship.

Ser Arthur frowned. "Perhaps," he allowed. "But I am hesitant to allow someone I have never met within reach of His Grace. You say this fortune-teller must touch the person whose future she would tell?"

"An unavoidable part of her gift," Ser Clarence answered reassuringly. "And one that is quite safe, I can assure you. The Rhoynar of Essos no longer take part in the contentions of kings and powers, not since the Valyrians broke their strength and drove them into exile. They are content to ply the great river and practice their ways in peace. And Mother Meshorlah is past eighty years of age, and cares nothing for who sits what throne or where."

Ser Arthur's frown deepened, then he nodded. "I will put it to His Grace," he said, "but I will neither speak for or against it, save to observe that magic is an untrusty thing to rely on." At Ser Clarence's raised eyebrow and glance in the direction of Greel's tent Arthur's look turned defensive. "I use Greel," he admitted. "But only as an auxiliary. He takes no part in our councils, and I do not rely on his arts alone in anything I use him in."

Ser Clarence nodded. "A wise decision," he said softly. "Mother Meshorlah might be harmless, but the warlocks of Qarth are a different breed altogether."

Later that evening in the rough-hewn cabin that was the main dining hall of Fort Dagger, after the remains of supper had been cleared away, Viserys clapped his hands. "I would see this fortune-teller that my Lord Commander has told me of," he piped, ignoring Ser Barristan's pained glance; the older Kingsguard had recommended against consulting Mother Meshorlah. "Bring her before me."

Ser Clarence rose and bowed. "She is without, Your Grace, and I shall bring her immediately, by your leave." At Viserys' nod he strode out and came back in the company of an aged woman in a simple gray cloak who leaned on the shoulder of a younger woman with braided black hair that fell halfway down her back and felt the ground before her with a stick.

"Yes, Your Grace, I am blind," the old woman said reedily as she sat on the stool that Beleqor had placed in the center of the room for her and drew back her hood to reveal an olive-skinned face as lined as a dried apple and two eyes as milky and opaque as river stones. "For every gift the gods give they exact a price, in proportion."

Viserys started. "You could tell what I was thinking?" he blurted, kingly dignity fleeing for a moment to give way to childish awe.

Mother Meshorlah cackled. "I needed no gift to do that, young king," she said teasingly. "You are young yet, and likely have never met a person who needed the aids that I do. When you are as old as I am, you hear people ask the same questions so many times it takes no foresight to see them coming."

"But you have foresight, we are told?" Viserys said, after a slight cough and a visible reassuming of his dignity.

Mother Meshorlah nodded, an operation that sent her whole upper body rocking back and forth ever so slightly. "It comes and it goes," she admitted. "But it is strongest when applied to those in a position to alter the course of, hmm, the paths of possibilities that constitute what is commonly called fate or destiny. What I see is the path that is most likely to occur, but there are points along the paths of possibilities where what I see can be changed, or even forestalled entirely."

Ser Barristan leaned forward. "Fate can be changed?" he asked incredulously. "But the Faith tells us that the gods determine the course of each man's life the day he is born, and that it is futile hubris to try and change the will of the gods."

Mother Meshorlah shrugged. "And perhaps there is wisdom in that teaching," she said, "for destiny is not an easy thing to change. Picture the fate of each person and each thing as a system of rivers, ser whitecloak, like the rivers and lesser streams that feed Mother Rhoyne. Each stream is a facet of that person's or thing's circumstances and personality that plays a part in determining their fate; some are stronger, some are weaker. The effort required to change their course varies, depending on the strength of the stream, but even the smallest of changes alters the character of the great river that is that person's or thing's fate." She jerked her head at the young woman standing by her stool. "This is what my granddaughter is learning, for when I return to Mother Rhoyne and she takes my place. There has always been one-who-sees in our family, back to the earliest days of the name."

Viserys nodded. "I understand," he said, "and I would like you to tell me what my fate will be."

"Good, for my gifts would do little good to anyone else in this room," Mother Meshorlah replied. "Ser Clarence's fate I have told him already, and he has made his peace with it. As for you, ser whitecloak," her sightless eyes sought out Ser Arthur's with uncanny accuracy, "to tell your king's future is to tell yours, and that of your brother there; such oaths as you have sworn bind more than just the body and the mind, or even the soul. And there is no one else here that is close enough to the, hmm, fulcrums upon which the levers of history pivot to let me see clearly." Her hand shot out and latched onto her granddaughter's elbow. "Come, girl, help me up," she commanded. "Kings don't come to the likes of us."

"They do when chivalry commands it of them," Viserys said, standing from his chair. "I have been taught to respect my elders better than to demand their discomfort."

As Viserys walked out from behind the table, Ser Arthur and Ser Barristan falling in on either side of him, Mother Meshorlah nodded. "I had heard of your father, young king," she said, relaxing back onto her stool, "and a piece of work he was by all reports. It is good to see that you will be better than him, at least. Now come, and let me See; don't worry, ser whitecloaks, your king is safe with me. I am too old to care about wars that were ancient before my great-grandmother was in the womb." As Viserys strode forward Mother Meshorlah leaned her stick back against her shoulder and stretched out hands that reminded Arthur uncomfortably of claws, although they were remarkably deft as Mother Meshorlah placed her fingertips around Viserys' temples.

Whatever Ser Arthur expected, it was not what came next.

"Aiee!" Mother Meshorlah cried, recoiling so quickly that Ser Arthur and Ser Barristan's daggers flew into their hands by pure reflex; only the equally quick reaction of Meshorlah's granddaughter saved her from toppling off the stool. "_Never_ have I Seen so clearly, young king. Your fate is one of fire and blood! The dragon shall rise again, aye, and the fallen star and the wheatsheaf will burn brightly at his side, but they who come for you are greater than you and your whitecloaks can ever hope to be. From the sea comes striding a giant whose sword has been reforged, and with him comes the greatest kraken of all that terrible brood! On the land they are joined by ones greater still. A black trout, old and strong and wise! A cunning raven whose wingbeats fan the flames of war! A black lion rampant in his strength and his pride! A grey wolf whose howls fill the air! And greatest of all, a black stag whose pawing shakes the earth and whose challenge splits the heavens! You and they shall battle, young king, and mighty shall be the victor among the nations until the cold winds blow and the night falls. But few, ah gods how few, shall be left to kneel before the conqueror!"

Ser Arthur replaced his dagger with a hand that he forced to be steady; a knight did not admit to fear. "Can this fate be changed?" he asked brusquely. He had seen the look on his king's face out of the corner of his eye and he did not appreciate that this old crone had put it there with nothing more than words that any bard could have dreamed up.

"Peace, Ser Arthur," Ser Clarence said warningly, rising from his chair. "It is ill-luck to ask one-who-sees to tell more than they wish."

"And I will See no more tonight," Mother Meshorlah said quickly, clearly shaken. "After Seeing _that_?" Her sightless eyes sought out Viserys'. "Pray to your gods, young king, if you would change what I have Seen; perhaps they will tell you what you must do. As for you, ser whitecloak," she turned her gaze to Ser Arthur as her granddaughter helped her up, "I heard your name in the howling of the wolf. Buying a strong hound or two, or perhaps four or five, might be in order."

As Mother Meshorlah hobbled out on her granddaughter's arm, Ser Arthur turned to his king. "Your Grace," he said soothingly, "I pray you give no heed to the old woman's words. Words are wind, and worth as much when compared to actions."

"Winds fill sails, Ser Arthur," Viserys replied somberly, and to that Arthur could make no reply.


	80. Chapter 80: Winter of Discontent

**Meanwhile, in Westeros . . .**

"Let me get this straight," Stannis said incredulously. "My wife, the queen, threw an inkpot at Lady Praela because Lady Praela recommended that she drink an infusion of dill and fennel?"

"Yes, Your Grace," Ser Cortnay replied.

Stannis blinked. "In the name of the gods, _why_?" he demanded. "Does my wife have some abiding hatred of dill and fennel that I was unaware of?"

"Apparently, Your Grace," Ser Cortnay answered, "Lady Praela recommended it as a traditional Myrish cure. A specific against bloat, I believe, was how she put it."

"A specific against . . ." Stannis began to say incredulously, then stopped himself as he stared at his chief bodyguard in a mixture of disbelief and indignation. "Is this what passed for courtesy in Myr before the Conquest?" he asked finally. "Or did the magisters of Myr have astonishingly boorish tastes in humor? Either way, I'm inclined to believe that Robert did the world an even greater favor than he reckoned when he conquered the place."

"That I cannot speak to, Your Grace," Ser Cortnay said. "But I can say that if Ser Dannel Tanner had been a touch slower, that inkpot would have hit Lady Praela square in the face and done her substantial injury. As it is, Her Grace has commanded that Lady Praela be confined to her quarters on bread and water until she learns better manners."

"Does she rule within the Red Keep, or do I?" Stannis asked mildly. "Lady Praela shall continue to have her freedom of the Red Keep, but if she cannot be civil to my wife, then she has my leave to abjure her company until she can."

Ser Cortnay hesitated, then forged ahead; sometimes you just had to presume upon the privilege that long and faithful service gave you. "May I speak freely, Your Grace?"

Stannis gestured gracefully with an ink-stained hand; he had been writing some private correspondence when Ser Cortnay had entered his austerely furnished solar. "Always, Ser Cortnay."

"Lady Praela may have provoked this incident," Ser Cortnay said carefully, "but Her Grace is also at fault for rising to the bait. And not only in this matter. Her ladies-in-waiting have felt the sharp edge of her tongue so often that they have taken to drawing lots as to which of them will sit nearest her on any given day. The Stormguard knights assigned to her have been abused in language that a knight should not have to bear; five of them have requested that they be assigned different duties. Similar discontent is brewing among the staff as well, or so the steward and the linen-mistress tell me. Your Grace, for the sake of peace in your court, I must request that you take steps to reduce the queen's distemper."

"And what steps would you have me take, ser knight?" Stannis asked impatiently. "A pregnancy is not something that can be hurried; the babes will come when they will come, and not a day sooner. Another month, or maybe six sennights, Pycelle tells me, and we may expect their arrival imminently."

"May the gods be merciful and make that day come swiftly, Your Grace," Ser Cortnay said darkly. "Before Her Grace reduces another laundry maid to tears or makes another one of your knights consider taking the black. Ser Jacen Landser told me that at least at the Wall if a woman insulted him, he could give her the back of his hand and not have to swallow the insult like some petty underling; I talked him out of it and assigned him to gate duty, but it was a near thing."

Stannis fiddled with the end of the quill he had been writing with, then plucked it out of the inkpot and threw it down onto the letter he had been writing. "Damn it," he said mildly. "You're right, Ser Cortnay. I've let myself get tied up in the governance of the Kingdoms too much and I've been neglecting my Court to do it. And my Queen, as well." He shook his head wearily. "It's this juggling act I've had to do since Tyrosh, balancing the demands of the Faith against the patience of the nobles and the willingness of the smallfolk. I trust you've heard of the petition that the Merchant Guild of King's Landing has drawn up, asking me to relax the strictures against usury? I can see their point, opening the valve wider would allow the money to flow easier, but the Faith considers usury a sin. And since the Faith is currently paying a greater share of the Throne's revenues than the Merchant Guild is, I must give their opinion precedence, and risk being called a second Baelor the Befuddled." He scowled briefly. "In addition to which, the Merchant Guild counseled for peace after the Battle of Tyrosh, so I'm not inclined to give them much beyond the sele of the day."

Ser Cortnay bowed slightly in agreement. He knew that it would be a sore point for his king that he had not been able to take part in the Fall of Tyrosh. At least Ser Harry Flash had been able to represent the Iron Throne, and quite well by all accounts. And merchants, it was known, were men of little honor; there were some things, a knight knew, that could not simply be bought and sold. Honor, not least of them. Nor could a man be trusted who could wrap you in chains of debt as strong as any steel ever forged and the more insidious for existing solely on paper. "And with the Faith-tax coming in as smoothly as it has, we have no need to go to the merchants for either a tax or a loan," he supplied, "so we have no need to deal with men who loved their traffic with slavers more than their king's honor."

"That, too," Stannis agreed, rising from his chair and striding over to the window, where he stood with hands knotted behind his back. "Although we cannot wholly stand against them, either. If, by some ill fate, the High Septon turns against us, then we will need the merchants, and the smallfolk they can attract to our banner, to counteract him."

Ser Cortnay frowned. "Is there something I should know about between you and the High Septon?" he asked cautiously. "As Lord Commander of your Stormguard . . ."

"You have a right to know, yes," Stannis replied; it wasn't the first time Ser Cortnay had used that line. "The migration of these so-called 'Old Faithers' to Andalos is not just putting him out of temper, it's making him nervous. It's not simply that they call his very office heretical, but that they dare to do it without a single patron to support or shield them. If I hadn't convinced him that it was better to have them making trouble on the other side of the Narrow Sea than in the Kingdoms, he might have formally requested me to take drastic measures. And the news form the Vale isn't helping; the rogue preachers there grow more intemperate by the month. Denys Arryn is keeping a lid on the pot for now, but he has sent ravens to Jon warning that unless something is done to break the mold, then the pot will boil over sooner or later."

Ser Cortnay nodded so that Stannis could see it in his reflection in the window and then moved the conversation on to other matters. Dwelling on the Vale heretics would only darken his King's mood further, and he would be remiss in his duty if he allowed that to happen. Besides which, such matters properly fell under the remit of the relevant overlord unless they got so out of control as to merit the King's attention, and if the Arryns were ever forced to plead for royal assistance against their own people . . .

After a half hour of discussing the city's winter food stores and measures to be taken against extreme weather, the impromptu meeting closed with Stannis resolving to make more time for his wife, to which Ser Cortnay bowed gratefully. Queen Cersei had inherited her father's pride, but she respected her husband enough to bury it for his sake. And if worst came to worst, the only person in the Red Keep who could browbeat the Queen into behaving, by custom, law, and natural order, was the King. Ser Cortnay's only suggestion was that His Grace make more time for his children as well. Prince Lyonel and Princess Joanna were some of the few things that could reliably lift Stannis out of his periodic black moods, and it would be an ill thing if Stannis reverted to the sour young man who had been prepared to hold Storm's End until it starved out of unadulterated, not to say unreasoning, stubbornness.

It was his duty to protect his king's mind and heart as much as his body, after all.

XXX

Ser Sandor Clegane stepped away from the pell and saluted with his longsword, the same way he did before beginning his cutting drills, as his breath steamed in the chill air. It was a habit that Ser Rickon had instilled in him when he was a new squire, as an aid to concentration, and one that Sandor had kept after receiving the accolade. He had found some of Ser Rickon's ideas difficult to accept, especially when it came to the role of the Faith in a man's life, but his ideas of how to fight, and especially how to train, he had engraved on his heart.

And training was most of what there was to do now, with winter upon them. Ordinarily, Sandor spent the middle days of the sennight riding around his fief, either hunting or simply relearning the land he had hoped never to come back to, but half a foot of snow on the ground and the constant possibility of more put a damper on riding. Horses were surprisingly fragile creatures, health-wise, and Sandor wasn't rich enough that he could afford to risk losing a horse to cold or illness. If his people needed his help, then that was another matter entirely, but for the most part they didn't, so Sandor confined himself to Clegane Keep and his household men with him.

Not that he let that be an excuse for idleness. If he and the five men-at-arms who followed his banner couldn't ride abroad, they could still exercise at the pell, swagger swords with each other, wrestle, practice with spear and poleaxe, and race each other around the keep in armor. They had done the last two already, though, and Sandor had already held the ring against his household men and either sent them to the other pells to practice certain cuts and covers or, in the case of two of the squires, set them to practice drawing and sheathing their swords until they could do so smoothly without looking down at the scabbard. It was a surprisingly difficult skill to master, but a necessary one; if you took your eyes off an opponent, even one that was defeated, then he was liable to take advantage of your inattention to put his sword through your guts.

Sandor sheathed his longsword and walked into the keep from the training yard, pulling off his basinet with a sigh of relief as the weight lifted off his head and neck muscles. His valet, a quiet and unremarkable man named Carlus, and his steward, an unassuming but somehow solid older man named Samwell, were waiting for him inside the doors to the keep. "I see my lord acted upon his word as regarded Ser Thomas," Samwell observed as Carlus took Sandor's sword.

"I said I would, didn't I?" Sandor replied almost gruffly. Samwell was always properly respectful, but he had been the man that Lord Tywin had sent to put Fief Clegane in order after word of Gregor's death had reached the Rock, and the man had done so with an energy and rigor that the other servants still spoke of in hushed tones. There were times when Sandor couldn't help the feeling that Samwell saw him as a slightly dim latecomer to the world of running a fief, if a well-meaning and quick-learning latecomer. "He'll know to keep his hands to himself in the future, or to at least get an invitation first."

Samwell nodded. Thomas Cutler, one of the men-at-arms, had evidently taken a few unwanted liberties with one of the chambermaids a few days ago, and the linen-mistress had brought the girl's complaint to Samwell, who had brought it to Sandor. Sandor, knowing that the best way to get an idea into Cutler's head was to pound it in, had done just that when they had sparred with poleaxes, sending him staggering inside on the shoulder of his squire with a cracked head and a warning to remember the rules next time he went a-courting. "There is a message from Lord Algood in your solar, inviting you to a winter tourney," he went on as Sandor began to walk up the stairs to his quarters, falling in on Sandor's left side as Carlus trailed them unobtrusively.

"Tell him I can't come, on account of the season and the difficulty of travel," Sandor said as he pulled off his gauntlets and tucked them under his arm. "More polite than saying that I hate tourneys." He had been to one, shortly after taking possession of Fief Clegane, and wanted to ride for the hills before the first day was half-over. _Someone_ must have told the mothers that the new Knight of Clegane was a fine catch for a landed knight's daughter, what with being a distinguished veteran of the Dornish wars and having the favor of Lord Lannister. If the Red Viper were still alive, Sandor would have told him to learn from the women who had sent their daughters after him; none of the ambushes he had survived in Dorne had been anywhere near as bad. Even scowling at them in a way that he knew made his facial scars especially grotesque hadn't helped; one brainless creature had actually _giggled_ and asked him to do it again, as if he was some kind of performing bear.

Their fathers and brothers had been worse, if that was possible. The number of western knights who had served in Dorne could be counted on two hands, and Sandor was the only one who had stayed in Dorne longer than the king had. Which meant that, to the knights who had been forced to stay home on account of politics, he was the closest that they could get to experiencing the Red Viper Rebellion themselves. The badgering for anecdotes had been relentless, along with the claims that if only the men of the Westerlands had been there then the Red Viper would have been brought to bay on the banks of the Greenblood, if not sooner. It had taken all of Sandor's hard-won self-control to not sneer in their faces. They might be belted knights, and men whose pedigrees went back to time out of mind, but he doubted that any of them would have done well on a long patrol in the desert, where the consequences of failure had started at a quick death in battle and gotten worse from there. Sandor would have taken Ser Rickon over any five of his neighbors; at least Ser Rickon had known what he was doing.

"All well at Dog Tower, still?" he asked, off-handedly.

"Ser Garrick sent the usual smoke signal at noon," Samwell replied. "Nothing unusual to report."

Sandor nodded, concealing disappointment. With Clegane Keep at one end of the fief, the other end was secured by Dog Tower, a two-story watchtower that had a double-edged reputation among the fief's men-at-arms. Usually, being placed in command of Dog Tower was a mark of favor and a sign that you were being considered for advancement, on account of it being an effectively independent command. In winter, however, being placed in command of Dog Tower was considered a sign of disfavor, due to its poor heating and relative isolation from the rest of the fief. Which was why Ser Garrick Dacre was in command there; he was an old man, the only man-at-arms of the fief who remained from Gregor's days, and his weakness for and ineptitude at gambling had left him with hardly a handful of coppers to his name when Sandor had taken possession. Sandor hadn't been able to bring himself to throw Ser Garrick, who was old enough to be his father, onto the road, but he still had doubts about the man. Any man who could serve Gregor was not someone to wholly trust. Hence his posting to Dog Tower. If Ser Garrick could keep the small garrison in order for the length of the winter and stay away from the dice and the cards while he did, then he would stay. If he couldn't, then Sandor would dismiss him, and the old man would have to try and get a place with the Lannisport City Watch. As Ser Rickon had been fond of saying, sometimes you simply had to know when to let someone go.

As Sandor dismissed Samwell at the door of his solar, he couldn't help scowling after the man. Being the Knight of Clegane had its benefits, for one thing he had a roaring fire and a warm bed to look forward to, but being confined to the Keep and its environs like this was _boring_. The reason Sandor had asked after Dog Tower was the slight hope that Ser Garrick might report bandits or even a wolf pack or a lion taking livestock. Anything to break the tedium.

XXX

_"__Whereas the king has imposed upon his people new and unusual taxes intended to fuel a profitless enterprise of folly;_

_Whereas the king has abolished the ancient system of governance in neighboring kingdoms, establishing therein arbitrary governments subject to his will alone and imposing that will with such force as to render it an example and fit instrument to extend such arbitrary government throughout the remainder of the Realm;_

_Whereas the king has enlisted the help of a corrupt and tyrannical High Septon to enforce the aforesaid taxes and arbitrary governments, thus unjustly placing those persons who seek only to defend their rights and liberties in peril of their mortal lives and immortal souls;_

_Whereas this unnatural and unholy alliance is clearly meant to more perfectly impose an illegal despotism upon the Seven Kingdoms, of a sort designed to reduce the people of those Kingdoms to the status of slaves in bondage to the Iron Throne;_

_Whereas all our petitions for redress of these and other grievances have gone unanswered;_

_We who sign our names below hereby resolve, upon the honor of our Houses,_

_Firstly, that we shall refuse to pay any taxes to the king's government save those which we have been accustomed to pay since time immemorial, or to which we shall freely consent;_

_Secondly, that we shall refuse to submit to the authority of any government save for that to which we have been accustomed to submit since time immemorial, or to which we shall freely consent;_

_Thirdly, to petition that a General Council of the Faith of the Seven be called to redress such abuses as shall be discovered;_

_Fourthly, to call a Great Council of the Seven Kingdoms in order to redress the grievances named herein, along with such other grievances as the Council shall deem necessary and expedient."_

Richard Norcross lowered the sheet of fine vellum upon which he and his fellows had written their Resolutions and looked around the table. "My lords," he said formally, "the laws of chivalry demand I ask you this; are you prepared to uphold these words with your fortunes and your bodies? For once we put our names to these Resolutions, there is no turning back. We will not be able to accept any peace short of victory."

"I am prepared," Fredrick Norridge said, his cheeks flushed with spirit as much as with the claret that had been passed around the table as the conspirators finalized their plans. "I say aye to these Resolutions."

"As do I," said Gaston Graves, who drew the ivory-hilted rondel dagger from his side and placed it on the table. "And I say also; damnation to this king, and all who stand with him!"

"I say aye, as well," Dayvid Pommingham said, "and pledge me and all mine to this cause."

Richard bowed. "Then I say aye as well, my comrades," he said formally, "in earnest of which, I call you all to witness that I am the first to sign my name to these Resolutions." He took the swan-feather quill from the inkpot at his right hand and signed his name with a dramatic flourish. As he stepped back Fredrick came forward and signed, then Gaston, and then Dayvid. After Dayvid signed his name, they each drew their daggers and crossed them over the parchment as Septon Ryman, who had been standing to one side, stepped forward and placed his claw-like hand over the blades.

"As you have sworn, so let yourselves be bound," he intoned. "Let none of you make any separate peace with your enemies, nor break faith with your comrades, nor fail to do all within your power to secure the victory. In the name of the Father, and of the Mother, and of the Warrior, and of the Maiden, and of the Smith, and of the Crone, and of the Stranger, so mote it be."

"So mote it be," the conspirators murmured as Richard felt a surge of triumph. They were only four, yes, but between them they had almost three hundred lances at their call, and many of their friends and neighbors who shared the same fears and grievances they did could be counted on to join their banners. All that was needed was for a spark to be struck, and the tinder that was the Upper Mander would burst into flame. And, Gods willing, once the weakness and falsehood of the Sour Stag was exposed, men of worth across Westeros would rally to them. And even if they didn't, the Gods would provide.

XXX

Lord Commander Qorgyle of the Night's Watch looked down at the slip of paper that Maester Aemon had put in his hands; it was the daily report from the patrol he had sent towards Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. _Arrived Sable Hall this evening, stopping for the night. Will continue onwards tomorrow. Nothing unusual to report. Jarman Buckwell._

Qorgyle neatly folded the paper and tucked it into a pocket of his black cloak, thinking as he did so. Mallador Locke had also reported in from the patrol heading west to the Shadow Tower to say that nothing was amiss. Not only that, but the two patrols he had sent northward to scout the haunted forest had also sent their ravens back reporting that they had found nothing unusual and were on their way home. When winter had arrived so swiftly he had privately feared the worst, but it seemed that the White Walkers would not be coming this year. He tapped the hilt of his sword and spat aside to avert the omen, nonetheless, but if they were coming then they would have seen signs. Wildlings moving south in larger-than-usual numbers, uncommonly long blizzards, wild rumors out of Hardhome, _anything._ The lack of evidence might be suspicious in itself, but sometimes no news was the best news.

And aside from the onset of winter, the Watch was doing splendidly. Robert the Brief's venture across the Narrow Sea might have proven a drain on their already slender recruiting pool, but the Red Viper's rebellion had made up for it. There were many Dornishmen who had fought for the Red Viper and had either been captured or surrendered upon his death, and when these men had been given the choice between death, exile to Myr, or the Wall, many of them had chosen the Wall. They had not fought for the Red Viper's cause simply to bend the knee to a Baratheon, whatever side of the Narrow Sea he ruled on. Not since the Targaryens had landed, he thought, had so many Dornishmen taken the black; when the Targaryens had fought in Dorne, they had killed their captives out of hand, more often than not, either as reprisal killings or simply to try and sow terror. Whatever might be said of Stannis, he was at least more reasonable than Daeron the Young Dragon.

Qorgyle nodded to Maester Aemon, who bowed silently, and strode out of the rookery to make for his study. He would write to Lord Brandon and inform him that all seemed quiet Beyond-the-Wall, and since the White Walkers were nowhere to be seen that would almost certainly be true of mundane threats as well. Even the wildlings did not make war in winter if they could help it.


End file.
